


Halfway to heaven from here

by Teland



Series: A New World [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BDSM, Banter, Biting, Cunnilingus, Dogboys & Doggirls, Established Relationship, F/M, Facials, Families of Choice, First Time, Foot Jobs, Frottage, Genital Torture, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Jealousy, Knotting, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Magic, Marriage, Masturbation, Mommy Kink, Multi, Oral Sex, Parent/Child Incest, Polyamory, Praise Kink, Pregnancy Kink, Rimming, Romance, Rough Oral Sex, Sexual Fantasy, Sibling Incest, Spanking, Telepathy, Vaginal Sex, Voyeurism, teaching kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2017-03-09
Packaged: 2018-05-10 23:23:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 75,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5604829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teland/pseuds/Teland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What are you thinking, Olivier?" </p><p>"I — filth."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Are we going to think this through? Any of it? No? Okay, then.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [naughtypixie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/naughtypixie/gifts), [the_Jack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_Jack/gifts).



> So, as you can all see, this is a WIP. I don't normally post these, but I've decided to break my own rules just this once. I'm about 77K into this one -- well over half-finished -- and I plan to post chapters roughly once a week. We'll see what life throws at me. 
> 
> What you need to know:
> 
> This is the second story in the A New World series, and it follows ["A new day to see,"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5344052) starting several weeks after that one ends. It's not going to make any sense without that one. Go read it.
> 
> Expect many more pairings, and many more tags THAT YOU ALL SHOULD PAY ATTENTION TO. 
> 
> Okay? Okay. Have fun. 
> 
> It wouldn't have gotten anywhere without Pixie -- who gave me the original bunny -- or Spice, Melly, Houndstar, Greyandgold, and my Jack, all of whom have been major supports as I wrote. Thank you all.

Treville's rooms in the de la Fère manor have always been too rich for his blood — too many frills, too much attention to well-appointed detail — 

And the fact that Kitos has been taking advice from Marie-Angelique about how to make the de Tréville manor more *like* that — 

("You *told* me to make this place right for your *legacy*, Fearless." 

"I —" 

"For *Porthos*."

"— shit.") 

Home has always been, for Treville, wherever the regiment was. 

Wherever his *brothers* were. 

Still, being *here* for a few days... 

Living among the de la Fère family and retainers... 

It's never been too lonely. 

It's been, not to put too fine a point on it, something *like* a home away from his home with the regiment, and tonight is no exception to that rule. 

His boys have had a good, long day of training and playing with Olivier, and study and talk and *quieter* play with Olivier and Thomas. 

After this weekend, Olivier will be spending much more time at the garrison — perhaps, finally, as much as Porthos and Aramis — 

There is *nothing* quite like presenting a proud man — a proud *father* — with a *second* promising young man, whose skills may someday outmatch one's own son's — 

Treville lies back on the bed and smiles. 

It will be interesting to see how Laurent approaches the matter when he joins Treville tonight. 

Annoyance at having his plans for his eldest child rushed? 

Excitement?

Worry?

Something entirely... else?

Treville absolutely, positively should not have *this* look on his face, in *this* house, while thinking about — this. 

For the past few weeks, much of Treville's... recreation time has been spent with Aramis and Porthos, helping them learn Porthos's limits, helping Porthos *stretch* those limits...

Treville growls and cups himself through his loosened trousers. 

He'd helped his boys stretch a lot of things... 

Right now, the two of them are hopefully utilizing the various things Treville had taught them — while working desperately not to simply devour them *whole* — to drive themselves perfectly mad in the rooms that had long since been set aside for Porthos. 

Aramis has his own rooms here, but the likelihood of them being used are about as high as the likelihood of Aramis's rooms in any of the de Tréville properties being used. 

("I belong to Porthos. I belong always at his *side*.") 

Treville would not be anything remotely close to himself if he didn't live for the mad light in their eyes — both of them — when Aramis says things like that. 

Certainly, Kitos and Reynard wouldn't be *them*selves. 

("I was worried we were going to run out of space." 

"Ah, oui, this manor house is only so big.") 

And Treville had *looked* at them —

And they'd looked right back — 

And then they'd snickered like children for the better part of five minutes — 

Just as if *they* didn't pile on top of each other like puppies at the slightest provocation. 

Just as if they *wouldn't* be doing that for the rest of their natural *lives* — 

But. 

Reynard and Kitos have the run of *that* manor, tonight. 

Aramis and Porthos are bundled together — and the plaster is too thick for Treville to hear or smell them. 

Treville is alone — 

But that will not last for much longer. 

Especially since this visit was *precipitated*... well...

("It's... growing acute." 

"Laurent?" 

"*Inside*.") 

And Laurent had all but *hustled* Treville into his office — undoubtedly starting any number of rumors about the two of them being on the *outs*, and fuck only knows what else — 

*No* one gossips like soldiers, including old men in teahouses and fishwives —

("Laurent —" 

"Thomas. Was helping Olivier dress the other night.") 

And... that should have, perhaps, been a perfectly innocent — if curious; Thomas is fourteen to Olivier's fifteen — sentence. 

If he and Laurent were any other two men — 

Any other two *fathers* — 

("Is there... had Olivier been injured?" 

"A slight burn — he'd wanted to dress for dinner — Thomas was performing for all of us; he's been working on a piece for the harpsichord — ah, God —") 

And Laurent had been pacing — 

Pinching the bridge of his nose — 

Muttering incoherently — 

Treville had caught the word 'fingers' and the word 'deviance', both uttered with the same degree of *fevered* passion — 

("Laurent. *Stop*." 

"Do not think to *order* — oh.") 

And then they'd looked at each other. 

Treville had raised an eyebrow. 

("Hm. That. That did help." 

"I'm glad." 

"Don't... do it again?" 

"Is that a question?" 

"Yes...?") 

Laurent had wetted his lips. 

Laurent had sat on his desk. 

And put his face in his hands. 

Treville had sat next to him. 

("About your sons." 

"No."

"All right.") 

Treville had waited.

After a moment, he'd rested one hand on Laurent's long thigh — 

Laurent had tensed and groaned and — 

("It's only that Thomas never stopped *talking*." 

"Yes?" 

"He was — he was working on Olivier's buttons, so easy and deft with his slim little fingers, callused only *from* the harpsichord — he tunes it himself —" 

"You'd mentioned —" 

"He never stopped talking.") 

Treville had nodded — 

Considered — 

("What was he saying?" 

"Everything and nothing. He was — he carries the conversation for Olivier much of the time. *Most* of the time. He was only — they were, nominally, speaking about the piece Thomas would be playing, and why he'd picked it, and what sorts of things he thought Olivier would like about it, and what their mother would like about it, and whether I'd notice a blessed *thing* about it —") 

Treville had coughed — 

("Of *course* Thomas didn't put it that way — he's more deft in *those* ways, as *well* —" 

"Already?"

"*Yes*, you'll — you'll see.") 

And there it had been. The request — open-ended, but still *bald*, still hungry, still needy — 

Treville had nodded. 

("I'll come." 

"Perhaps — are your sons — are they... ready?" 

"To be without me for a time?") 

Treville had wagged his head. 

("They're both on the reckless side, to be honest, but I think I've impressed on them — and they've impressed on each other — just how much they have to lose if they're *too* reckless.") 

And Laurent had wetted his lips again — 

Again — 

And dragged Treville's hand to his groin. Right there in his *office*. 

Treville had *blushed* — 

("I'm sorry. I'm — I'm — I *apologize* —" 

"Shh..."

"Don't —") 

And Treville had squeezed hard — 

("Oh." 

"Was it his voice, Laurent?"

"Brother — brother, don't —" 

"Was it the way his soft lips moved and moved and never *stopped* moving?"

"Oh — God —" 

"Was it his smile?" 

"*Please*!") 

Treville had nodded and opened Laurent's trousers fast, *fast* — 

("I —" 

"Thomas's smiles are as sweet as Marie-Angelique's —" 

"*Sweeter*, he — she — he has a *kindness* —" 

"Marie-Angelique is sharper, more deft with her *wit*." 

"*Yes*, brother —" 

"Thomas is warm." 

"Ah — please — *please* —" 

"You want him to be warm with you —") 

Laurent had made a sound like he was being torn *apart* inside — 

Treville had *gripped* his cock — 

Laurent had turned and gripped Treville's *leathers* — 

Ground his face in against Treville's *shoulder* — 

Gripped *harder* — and it had been a plea. 

("You want him in your bed —" 

"His. *His*." 

"You want his scents all around you —" 

"So — he's still so sweet, so —") 

Another torn sound, another *tortured* sound — 

Treville had stroked *fast*, *hard* — 

Laurent had *groaned* — 

("Have you watched him touch himself —" 

"*No*!" 

"Shh, shh. You don't know, then. You don't know what he'll ask for when you cup his sweet, growing cock in your hand —"

"HNH —" 

"You don't know what he'll need when he tugs at your — your *shirt* —" 

"B-*brother* —" 

"But he talks. He *always* talks —" 

"Yes — yes, always —" 

"Maybe he'll tell you —" 

"Ah — ah, *God* — I — *please* —" 

"Maybe he'll tell you exactly how, and how much, and how *hard* —"

"Nngh —") 

And Laurent had growled, dropped his hand to twine with Treville's — and he'd demanded harder, faster, more *brutal* — 

Treville had shivered and *wanted* — 

("Maybe he'll tell you he wants a kiss —" 

"Oh —" 

"That he'd seen you kiss Maman, that he'd seen you do it so hard, so *hard* —" 

"Oh — *oh* —" 

"That he wants to *feel* —") 

And Laurent had gone rigid, making Treville squeeze viciously hard, brutally *hard* as he'd spent all over the *floor* — 

("I want — I *want* —" 

"Maybe he —" 

"I want to kiss his *cock* —" 

"*Fuck*, Laurent, yes, yes, kiss his cock, kiss it, suck it —") 

And Laurent had made a *broken* noise and spurted one more time, all over their *hands* — 

He'd panted and *slumped* — 

He'd been *shaking* — 

And Treville had been *hard* in his breeches, helpless not to think about his beautiful dark brother bent over his pretty blond son, nosing into the curls round his cock...

It had been an eventful day, *directly* leading to this weekend visit. 

Laurent needs him, if only as the comfortable wall between himself and his sons. Though...

Should he be getting *Laurent* a whore — no. He can't even get the question all the way out. Laurent would have a very polite conversation with whatever whore or whores Treville acquired for him, and then, even if Laurent *did* somehow come to desire the boys in question, the desire would be entirely separate from his desire for his sons. 

And — lesser. 

Has Laurent admitted that to himself, yet? 

Has he curled himself round that particular fire in his heart, yet? 

It's not the kind of fire that warms you. 

It's the kind that burns everything else down. 

*Treville* has given himself over to the conflagration — there is no part of him which does not and will not *always* belong to his Porthos, and now his Aramis. Treville, however, doesn't have to burn alone, anymore. 

It makes a difference. 

It — 

"Brother...?" 

He doesn't ever want his brother to be alone. "Here," he says, and sits up on his elbows. 

Laurent comes in with a lamp — and Marie-Angelique. 

Treville blinks. He wasn't — 

"I know you weren't expecting me tonight," she says, and rests her fingertips on the edge of the bed. Her long, blonde curls are unpinned, and she's wearing a dressing gown over... well, he doesn't know.

Does he. He sits up further."I... wasn't, no, but you're always —" 

"Laurent says... that you've offered... relief," she says, and looks him in the eye, and — 

And that word has come to mean *one* thing between him and Laurent, *one* —

But can it? 

*Really*? 

Treville turns to *look* at Laurent — 

Who smiles ruefully — "Marie-Angelique pointed out, quite rightly, that I have a certain way of... looking at people with whom I desire sexual relationships. And that she had grown accustomed to only seeing that look aimed at herself and you for sixteen years —" 

"And so," Marie-Angelique says, "seeing it aimed at our children was... bracing? I believe that's a reasonable word for it."

Abruptly, Treville feels less like he's on a bed than like he's in the middle of a *shooting* range — no. Not that. 

But... something.

Something he needs to get a handle on very, very quickly. "Marie-Angelique. I know precisely what Laurent means when he asks me for... relief. I'd like to know what you mean." 

"That's reasonable, as it's a rather different role in our marriage than the one you've taken in the past," she says, and, "May I sit?" 

"Of course," Treville says, and wonders if it's reasonable or not to feel self-conscious about his semi-nudity. He and Marie-Angelique — and he and Marie-Angelique and *Laurent* — have made love many times, but this — 

This isn't the *same*. 

Even though it had felt like just another part of his brotherhood with Laurent — 

Even if — 

Is it because she's the boys' mother?

For a moment, Amina is large in his mind, in his heart, in his *soul*. 

He can *feel* her under those apple trees on the de Tréville grounds, and that's — 

Too far. 

Even though their world has changed enough that she wouldn't have been able to accept it all. And, really, that's the answer. 

Treville had fully expected to carry out his *relief* of Laurent as a secret from Marie-Angelique, despite their closeness over the years, despite their *intimacy*. Treville had never *once* considered speaking to her about it, until just this moment, and that... 

Treville growls at himself and shakes his head. "No, wait, I apologize —" 

"Laurent already did," she says, humming and pinning him with a look. "I've had over sixteen years to grow accustomed to you men and the way you keep secrets in the name of *brotherhood*." 

"Oh. Then —" 

"I haven't. Every time I think I've finally made you both — or at least one of you — understand that *I* will understand, that I am a thinking, feeling, *reasoning* human, that I am —" And Marie-Angelique turns away, silent and obviously angry, obviously *hurting* — 

Treville turns to Laurent — 

Who is, thankfully, crawling onto the bed. "I didn't know how to talk about this, my love." 

"With *words*." 

"But which? Blunt ones? Crude ones? Apologetic ones? They all seemed too grasping, while the ones which distanced myself from the acts I wished to commit were fundamentally dishonest —" 

"*Laurent* —" 

"I think, perhaps," Treville says, quietly, "that Marie-Angelique would've liked you — *us* — to search for the right words together." 

Laurent laughs softly. "Certainly that would match her general — hm. I will pick this lesson up, given time and care —" 

"And, in the meantime, you'll keep more secrets with Treville," she says, and *looks* at Laurent. 

Laurent blushes — 

And then Marie-Angelique looks at *him* — and it's a request. A plea to keep fewer secrets, to trust her, to let her *in*, and Treville *wants* to say yes, to make that *promise*, but —

"What did your Amina do, Treville? When you kept secrets from her?"

Treville blinks —

"Violence was usually in the offing," Laurent says — 

And Treville coughs. "Serious violence for serious secrets, I —" Treville shakes his head. "I... didn't keep many secrets from her. She was my sister." 

Marie-Angelique nods. "And I am merely Laurent's wife." 

"There's nothing 'mere' about —" 

Marie-Angelique stops Laurent with one raised hand. "Is it the question of sex? Amina remained pure, and thus was worthy of your trust?" 

Treville stares at Marie-Angelique. 

He can *feel* Laurent doing the *same* — 

And Marie-Angelique — who had once likened having her name shortened to being 'affixed to the herd' of French women named after the Queen of Heaven, and Treville will just *remind* himself of that every time he thinks of doing anything *like* dismissing her — gives them *both* looks. 

Which need to be answered. 

It's just that Treville has no bloody idea —

"It also —" Laurent coughs and clears his throat and coughs again — "It also was helpful — Amina was Treville's liege." 

"What." 

"Magically —" 

"What?" 

"The bond between them —" 

"What are you *talking* about, Laurent?" 

"I was made to be her knight," Treville says, because he can talk, and be useful, and *talk*. "She'd already been my friend, and my sister, and the magic made her my liege. And... something *like* my wife, but closer." 

Marie-Angelique gives him a hurt look. "I want to ask you what's closer than a wife. I want to." 

Treville reaches out to stroke her soft cheek, careful with his calluses —

"It all... made it easier for you to confide in her, even though your natural inclinations were to confide only in your brothers," she says. 

Treville nods. "That always seemed like the case." 

She nods back. "Bind me." 

Laurent grunts — 

"I —" 

"Make me a part of — this. A part of *you*. Give me what I've waited our children's *lifetimes* for," she says, and glares fiercely at both of them. "Give me *you*, because I've proven that I will accept everything *about* you, and the *least* you can do is accept me." 

Laurent reaches with one long arm and *grips* Marie-Angelique by the shoulder — 

"Don't *try* to *dissuade* me —" 

"I can't give you the same bond Amina had," Treville says — 

"Why *not*?" 

"I don't know that kind of magic, and two of the three witches who performed the spells are dead. But..." And Treville looks to Laurent. 

(You already know what I will *say*, brother!) 

So I do. 

"But *what*? Don't wait, don't make *me* wait any *longer* — I. I've been going *mad* while watching *Laurent* go mad, waiting for him to *talk* to me and knowing he never *would*! If you can give me something that would help —" 

"I can... bite you," Treville says.

Marie-Angelique frowns. "I've seen Laurent's scars — and Kitos's and Reynard's, for that matter. Those are more than marks of... possession?" 

"They allow communication. Connection. *Sharing*." 

Marie-Angelique inhales sharply — "I want it." 

Laurent shudders and moans — 

Marie-Angelique stands up — presumably to remove her dressing gown — but Treville catches her by the wrist. "Treville?" 

"Tell me first what you meant by relief. *Tell* me." 

Marie-Angelique's smile is pained. "What does anyone mean by it in a situation like this one? I watch my husband, my beautiful husband who makes love perfectly *every* time, look at my sons... 

"My beautiful sons. Olivier emulates his father in every way he *can*, and *struggles* not to run, flushed and panting, back to his rooms to be alone after his father has lectured him and him alone. 

"Thomas has it harder. He has no easy way to *connect* with his father, no easy way to *impress* him — or so he thinks. Each word of praise is hoarded, held close, shivering and sweet..." 

Laurent *pants* — "I — I — I *have* to —" 

"Stay *right* where you are, Laurent," Treville says — 

"But —" 

"Now is not the *time*." 

"*Brother* —" 

"It isn't, truly," Marie-Angelique says, and strokes her own upper chest with her fingertips. "I'll tell you when, husband." 

"Please —" 

"I'll *show* you —" 

"I — *fuck*," Laurent says, with perfect enunciation. 

Marie-Angelique and Treville both stare at him. 

Laurent stares back. "*More*." 

Treville grins and nods at Marie-Angelique, squeezing her wrist. "You heard the man." 

She smiles. "Why wouldn't I want my boys to be happy?" 

Laurent *moans* — 

She nods once, taking that in. "They need... so much. They're deeply solemn young men — even Thomas, who has the makings of a wonderful host. They need happiness." 

Treville stands and growls and *helps* Marie-Angelique strip down. "You can help with that." 

"*With* their father...?" She purses her lips. "You don't think that's grasping?" 

Treville looks to the bed, where Laurent is already stroking himself off. "I don't think *he* thinks so." 

Marie-Angelique grins. "Perhaps not. I miss bathing them."

Fuck — "Do you, now," Treville says, and tosses the dressing gown aside — 

She's nude — 

She's pink and pale and flushed and — 

"Let me bite you," he says, and he's not careful of his calluses, at all, when he starts petting her, when he starts *having* her with his hands — 

"Yes — oh, yes —" 

"Please — on the bed," Laurent says, and his voice has that depth of *hunger* that always takes it when Treville is touching his wife — 

When Treville is touching his wife *rudely* — 

Treville checks with Marie-Angelique, meets her eyes in question — 

And finds them already hazed over with lust, already wide and dark and *ready* — 

She nods — 

Treville tosses her onto the bed next to Laurent — 

Laurent cups her left breast with one big hand, one big, scarred hand — 

He kisses her — 

She pushes him back — 

He growls — 

She laughs like music Thomas would play to *please* her — and turns back to *him*. 

Treville crawls onto the bed and grips her thigh. "He can kiss you, Marie-Angelique. I don't need your mouth... at the moment," Treville says, and grins as he scratches down her inner thigh with his human-seeming nails — 

She *grunts* — 

Moans — 

She spreads her legs, which are just a bit thicker that they used to be, just a bit *softer*. 

The man in Treville is deeply confused by all the parts of him which appreciate that, but the rest of him knows that this is the time to put such thoughts and questions away, this is the time to follow his instincts — and the dog's. 

He sniffs up her inner thigh and licks — 

"Ah —" 

"Has she been wet there, brother?" 

"That she has," Treville says, and licks, and licks, and licks up the salty-sweet-tangy juices she's left for him here, right here, and he never lets his tongue travel all the way up to her dripping sex — 

And he absolutely *does* let himself start growling for it — 

Start *needing* for it — 

Start — 

Fuck, yes, her other thigh, and now he's nipping — 

Now her little cries are muffled for Laurent's kisses — always extra-passionate, Marie-Angelique confessed once, when Treville's mouth was *also* on her somewhere — 

Treville is happy to *oblige* — 

He licks round to the other side of her strong, columnar thigh — 

Not too *long*, but long *enough* — 

He shifts his teeth — 

Hold her, Laurent. 

(Oh — *yes* —) 

And Marie-Angelique makes a soft and faintly-pained noise — 

And Treville grips her *thigh* to hold her still — 

"What are you — oh — *oh* —" And she shouts, then, loud and sweet and high — 

So *high* — 

Treville can't help feeling like it makes her blood taste sweeter, like it makes the flow of it faster into his greedy mouth — 

"Oh — *Treville* —" 

Feel me... And he *laps* into the wound, laps to heal, laps to scar, laps to *connect* — 

To share and give and *connect* — 

They'll always *have* her now — 

They — 

And suddenly there's a moan inside him, warm and belling and *hungry* — 

There's a hunger inside him that's not his *own* — 

He *grips* her, spirit to spirit — 

He reaches for Laurent — 

(Show me, show me my love...) 

(Oh oh — oh — *fuck* —) 

Treville grins *wide*, inside and out — 

(Marie-*Angelique*!) 

(I — *fuck*!) 

Treville strokes her inside, makes her feel his power, his *force* — 

She groans and *shakes*, inside and out —

Laurent *grips* her — 

(Fuck fuck *fuck* — oh. Oh. *Wait*. Neither of you do — anything!) 

As you say... 

(Don't even talk!) 

Treville shuts it — 

Laurent is eyeing her *hungrily* across the spirit-space — 

And Marie-Angelique is... finding herself. 

Acquiring the *pieces* of herself, and recognizing that they're all in one basic place, that *she's* all in one basic place, not especially far from where she thought she was — 

Not *tremendously* more vulnerable than how she thought she was — 

Treville wouldn't let her be — 

(And. Are you my protector, now?) 

You're my pack. I'm always going to protect you, Treville says, and he doesn't paw at the *bed* or anything — 

He has control of himself — 

To a large extent — 

But pulling back out of the spirit space — 

Kneeling up and *looking* at his brother and (sister) Marie-Angelique — 

Laurent is gripping her so *tightly* — 

He'll *bruise* her — 

"Will you protect me from that...?" And her eyes are — dark. Wide. *Hot* — 

And Laurent's eyes are just the same. 

Treville shifts his teeth back to human-form, licks his *face* with his half-shifted tongue — 

Pants — 

And Marie-Angelique pants, too, breasts lifting and heaving and — 

Treville growls. "I want to knot you tonight." 

"You will. Would you like my arse or my cunt?" 

Laurent makes a hurt sound, a *desperate* sound of *lust* — 

He *cups* her breasts — 

Squeezes them *tightly* — 

Marie-Angelique winces and wriggles — 

"Stay — stay still —" 

She moans — and moans *inside* them both, as well. 

Treville pants more — "I want your cunt. I want..." 

Marie-Angelique grins, bright and wide. "Do you want another chance at making me pregnant, Treville?"

"You're. You're my *pack* now —" 

(Is this what this is?) 

YES — 

(Is this what you kept from me?) 

I — I — 

(You're going to suffer. *Both* of you.) 

(Marie-Angelique —) 

(Shh. We have business to attend to,) she says, and spreads her legs wide. "Say it. Say you want to make me pregnant."

Treville growls and *snaps*. "You're not. You're not *old* —" 

Marie-Angelique snorts. "I'm not! Try *again*." 

"I want to give you *my* seed —" 

"Try. *Again*." 

"I want to make you — make you *fat* with my babes —" 

"Oh —" And Marie-Angelique licks her lips. "More than one? Do you throw litters like a hound?" 

Laurent grunts and *bucks* — and drags Marie-Angelique back so that he can thrust against her arse — or — 

Is he between your cheeks, Marie-Angelique? 

(You haven't answered *my* question!) 

Treville grunts — and. "I don't know. I don't know if I throw litters. It's — one of the reasons I haven't made love to many women since I've been changed." 

"Or *any* women except for me?" 

Treville groans — 

Inhales — 

She's not ripe, she's *not* — quite. 

It's just that she's *close* enough to *being* ripe that it's dangerous — 

(Oh... really.)

Shit — 

And Marie-Angelique laughs, musical and sweet and utterly, *reprehensibly* evil. 

"Marie-Angelique —" 

"I'm 'ripe', you say, Treville...?" 

Treville looks to Laurent — 

Laurent is busy mauling her breasts and — presumably — fucking her cleft. 

Laurent is not going to be any fucking *help* — 

"On the contrary, brother," Laurent says, panting and looking *up* from Marie-Angelique's throat, "I think it would be very helpful to point out that Marie-Angelique's breasts are much more full than they were when we married, and thus she'd have a much easier time feeding a child — or two — than she did before." And Laurent pinches her fat nipples — 

Marie-Angelique *grunts* — 

Laurent *tugs* them — 

Marie-Angelique gasps and *moans* — and never looks away from Treville's eyes. 

"*Laurent* —" 

"Would you like that, Treville?" And Marie-Angelique sticks her tongue out just a little for a moment. "Would you like watching me suckle your babes?" 

Treville's knot — throbs — 

"I would," Laurent says — 

And Treville yips helplessly — "Don't — *don't* —" 

"We would have to decide," Laurent says, and *twists* Marie-Angelique's nipples. "Which of us would they call Daddy, and which of us would they call *Papa*." 

"I —" 

"I would, of course, answer — mm. Mm — oh, Laurent, so *hard* —" 

"You can take it, my love..." 

Marie-Angelique moans and *offers* her chest — 

Treville *growls* — 

"I would answer all the questions — I would tell all the nosy little busybodies about the dangerous life a soldier leads, and how grateful I am to have such a noble godfather for my children," Marie-Angelique says, and stares at him *levelly* — 

*Hotly* — 

And Treville is — pawing at the sheets. 

Needing — 

Marie-Angelique is so *wet* — 

So *ready* — 

"Yes, I am," she says, and lifts one little foot and places it on Treville's *shoulder* — 

Treville flares his nostrils — 

"I've always loved watching you do that... brother," she says, and Treville *snarls* — 

He can't *help* it — 

"Was that a no?" And she strokes him with her toes — 

He wants to *bite* — 

Again and *again* — 

She raises her *eyebrows* — 

"Answer her, brother," Laurent says, and *looks* at him — 

And Treville can breathe, and cup her ankle — 

Squeeze it — 

*Grip* — "It's — not a no. It's not *anything* like a no," he says, and nips her toes, sucks them, licks — 

"Ah — *mm*. We are *pack* —" 

"*Yes* —" 

"You want to give me your *seed* —" 

"*Yes* —" 

"You'll make me big and round with your babies...." 

Treville flexes and twitches and — and *shoves* his breeches down one-handed — 

Marie-Angelique takes a quick breath — "That's for me." 

"I'll make you take it *all*, sister..." And that was barely human *speech* — 

Marie-Angelique moans. "Laurent, I — please. Please let me... get into position for my brother." 

Treville *shudders* — 

"I don't think there's any reason in *particular* why our brother can't fuck you just like this, my love," Laurent says, and bites her ear — 

"Nnh — but — but, Laurent, husband, it's more proper —" 

"Are you so concerned with propriety, wife?" And Laurent pinches her nipples *hard* — 

She moans *loudly* — "I — I am when I'm offering myself to get *pregnant* by a magical being —" 

"Hmm. It's true that you do this only rarely," he says, and *smacks* her nipples — 

"AHN —" 

"Up." 

"Yes — *yes*," she says, and they start to move into position — 

Treville feels *dazed* — 

He can't — 

He can't make himself *say* or *do* — but. "I'm. I'm supposed to be *relieving* the two of you!" 

Marie-Angelique opens her mouth — 

And Laurent shoves three fingers *in*, stretching it wide — 

(*Fuck* —) 

Laurent's cock twitches *hard* — 

And Treville growls helplessly, *needily*, as he shoves at his breeches like a callow boy — 

"Off the bed and take those off the rest of the way," Laurent says — 

"Laurent —" 

"Do it." 

Fuck — Treville obeys — 

"As for our relief," Laurent says, and arranges Marie-Angelique *properly* — 

Spreads her knees just so — 

Arches her back — 

Lifts her arse — 

Lowers her — her *head* — 

Treville *pounces* back on the bed — 

"There you are. Would you like for me to spread her lips for you? They're quite plump and swollen right now." 

Treville growls and growls and — gives up on speech and nods. 

"As you wish," Laurent says, and spreads her *wide* — 

Shows Treville her *hole* — 

Her clenching-wet *hole* — 

"Go on, brother. Take her." 

Marie-Angelique makes a *soft* sound into the duvet — 

Reaches awkwardly and hungrily *inside* them for Treville and *pulls* — 

Treville *snarls* and pushes in — 

In — 

In so sleek so hot so — 

Clenching tight, clenching hot so — 

*In*, and she's gasping the way she does, the way she *always* does for how thick he is, for how *much* of him there is, and he'll *give* her his knot, but there's always the thrill, the naughty-strange *thrill* of having her like a man first, of taking these long, slick, *wet* thrusts — 

Taking them like something that doesn't — *shouldn't* — belong to him — 

"They do," Laurent says, and he's not holding her anymore, he's pressing gently on her pleasure-button — 

She's gasping and crying out — 

She's *shaking* — 

"You're going to tie her soon, brother..." 

Yes — oh, yes, *yes*, and just thinking about it makes him fuck her harder, faster, *faster* — 

She *yells* — 

She *screams* — 

"It always seems as though she's calling you to her when she does that, brother..." 

*Yes*, and he'll come, he'll *come* — 

"So you will. And you'll have her — hard and properly — and you'll *fill* her — 

And the shift is — 

Is *boiling* under his skin — 

The way it does when he's taking his *sons* — 

And Marie-Angelique grunts and *laughs*, sweet and gasping and breathless — 

(I will take that for the flattery it *is*!) 

*Please* — 

"You'll tie her, brother, and then you'll fill her, and then you'll *keep* her tied, forcing her to keep your seed for a good, long while." 

Let me LET me PLEASE —

"Such a good boy to *wait*... mm," Laurent says, and licks his shoulder. "While you have her tied? You'll relieve us." 

Treville blinks — 

Marie-Angelique moans low and so *hungry* — (Yes, please, husband, *please* —) 

For a moment, all of their minds are *filled* with images of Olivier and Thomas, of their smooth cheeks, of their quiet smiles, of their curves of their arses as they *wrestle* — 

And then Laurent *tears* them away — 

Marie-Angelique *sobs* — 

"*Knot* her." 

Treville growls and pushes immediately, pushes against the resistance and wants to slam, wants to fuck, wants to — 

(It's — it's always *easier* when you work back and forth,) she says in their minds. Outside, she's crooning, moaning — 

"Drooling a little, as well. Once she's made *enough* noise to satisfy me — for the moment, of course — I'll have her mouth." 

Marie-Angelique *grunts* — 

Clenches *hard* — 

Treville *growls* and loses his — 

His *rhythm* — 

No, no, he can keep this, he can — 

He needs to get *in* before his knot gets any *bigger*, before he gets any more needy and *insane* — 

(We love you that way,) she says, moaning and laughing — 

She sounds almost drunk — 

She *feels* that way — 

He *wants* her that way, loose and pliant and *easy*, but he'll take this, he'll take *this*, rocking in, rocking *in*, rocking — 

And oh, she howls like an animal once the largest part of his knot is in, howls like she's *his* —

"She *is*," Laurent says, and smacks her *arse* — 

She makes a *choked* sound, a *shocked* sound — 

Flexes *open* — 

Treville rocks *in* — 

She howls *again*, drumming her feet — 

So soft — 

Treville still wants to *bite* — 

Leave his scars everywhere —

Leave his *mark* — 

"You'll leave your mark where I *tell* you to leave it and nowhere *else*," Laurent says, and *grips* the back of Treville's neck — 

Treville *yips* again — 

Flexes inside Marie-Angelique and *needs* — 

*Needs* — 

"*Say* it." 

Treville opens his mouth and groans, *groans* because he's almost — 

*In* —

And Marie-Angelique *screams* — 

And Treville throws his head back and — 

"*Stop*," Laurent says. 

And Treville stops in his *tracks*, shaking hard and *whining* — 

And Laurent leans in and whispers in his ear. "You'll always be my hound. Won't you." 

Treville whines and whines and *nods* — 

Marie-Angelique *whimpers* — 

And Laurent smacks her hip. "You'll remember who controls this, won't you, my love...?" 

"*Yes*, husband!" 

"Good. Now, brother. What about your marks on my wife?" 

Treville *pants* — 

*Throbs* — 

His knot is *aching* — 

*Growing* — 

"*Treville*." 

"Only when you say! Only where you say!" 

"Good boy," Laurent says, and slaps *Treville's* arse. 

Treville *barks* — 

"Have her."

"*Yes*, Laurent," Treville says, *gripping* her soft, fat hips — 

Holding them *tight* as he — 

Oh, as he *ruts* — 

As he *takes* — 

His mind is already going, already losing itself to her hot, deep scents, to her sweetness and tang, to her sweat and musk and *sex*. 

She's making those *sounds* for him, those — 

That *continuous* keen broken up with the grunts he's fucking out of her, *shoving* out of her — 

He wants — 

The dog always needs more — 

The man always needs — 

He *covers* her — 

"*Yes*, brother —" 

And Marie-Angelique *groans* as he wraps his arms round her chest, as he grips her soft breasts, feels them, refamiliarizes himself with them — 

"*Molest* her..." 

As he *rams* in, and his cock wants more of exactly what it has, his knot wants to hold her, hold her *still* — 

She's moaning and moaning, and her nipples are so *huge*, so *sweet* — 

He squeezes her breasts — 

He squeezes them *hard* — 

She clenches round him and tries to lift her arse, give herself, give *more* of herself — 

And Treville can't *bite* — 

He wants to — 

He wants to so *badly* — 

"Just hold on, brother," Laurent says, and he's moving round in front of Marie-Angelique, stroking his long, thick cock — 

Staring down at her and obviously *wanting* — 

"How badly do you need her that low, brother?" 

"Just. Just." And Treville growls and growls and *shoves* an image of himself holding Marie-Angelique down on Laurent's cock — 

Laurent growls and *shudders* — "And that would be.... mm. That would be adequate?" 

Treville groans and nods and takes, *takes* — 

Marie-Angelique is moaning steadily, *constantly* — 

Gripping at the sheets and *groaning* — 

Her curls are falling *lank* — 

Treville wants to *bite* — 

"*Treville*." 

He *focuses*, groaning and — 

He *focuses*. "It would be *enough*," he says, looking up into Laurent's eyes — 

His brother — 

His lover and brother and — that other word, that one they don't say, because it's a little too hard for Treville, if maybe *not* for Laurent — 

"Nothing about you is too hard, too *much* for me," Laurent says, and grips Marie-Angelique by the hair — 

"Nuh —" 

"Oh, wife — oh, wife..." He lifts her, and shares her dazed expression with Treville, shares her hazed-over eyes and her slack mouth and the drool on her *chin* — 

So — 

"Do you see what you've done to her, brother?" 

"She —" But she *clenches*, quivering around him, and Treville is growling again, rutting and gripping her tighter, holding her *tighter* — 

She gasps — 

"She told me once that your knot touches her in a way that she couldn't describe, brother. I thought she was being poetic, and did my best to respond in kind —" 

Treville coughs and groans and *spasms* inside her — 

Oh — 

Inside — 

"Yes, you may laugh for that — certainly my — my attempts," Laurent says, and paints her lips with his slick while she tries to mouth at the head of his cock — "My attempts left much to be *desired*," he says, and pulls her *on* as she moans — 

As she *shakes* — 

Treville can't — he lets go of one breast and grips the back of her head so he can push with Laurent, so he can — 

Have — 

Laurent laughs. "My hungry hound. Go on, then. Push her down." 

Treville snarls and *shakes* — 

Shoves *in* — 

*In-in-in* —

She's *gurgling* — 

And she sends *them* a hazy and slowly-firming image of her riding both of them, rocking back and forth, taking both of them at *her* pace — 

No — 

No, not that, not for this — 

"Yes, I'm afraid not, my love — go on, brother, push her — *nnh*. Tonight — tonight, we ride *you*." 

And there's something like a banked *exclamation* inside her — 

A shout without language — 

She stiffens — 

But she doesn't struggle when they grip her tight, she doesn't — 

Oh, good girl, good girl, she stays, just right, good *girl*, and Treville has one hand on the back of her head, holding her down on Laurent's cock, and the other on her breast — 

And Laurent has a *fistful* of her sweaty curls and is petting and stroking and *teasing* her face with his other hand — 

She *shakes* in their hands — 

She *trembles* — 

Laurent growls — and flushes to his navel. "My love. My love. You're going to take this. And you're going to spend when I tell you to —" 

She tenses *hard* — 

Treville snarls and fucks her *harder* — 

She *whines* around Laurent's cock — and goes loose. 

"There, see, wife? Isn't that better?" 

Treville loosens his grip on her head *slightly* — 

She *nods* — 

"Good girl," Laurent says — 

Treville's cock *jerks* inside her — 

He can't stop *rutting* like a *beast* — 

"But that's exactly — exactly what you are," Laurent says, and wets his lips. "And so am I," he says, and shoves *in* — 

Marie-Angelique *gulps* — 

Laurent shouts, brief and *loud* as he throws his head back — and then he *snarls*, dropping his head and letting himself off the *lead*, fucking her face fast and hard — 

Treville has to hold her in *place* — 

"Ah — *ahn* — oh, *both* of you —" 

Treville's knot is *throbbing* — 

And Marie-Angelique is moaning *inside* them, all *through* them — 

He can't stop *having* her — 

"*Don't* stop, brother — and — and *touch* her more," Laurent says, and he's flushed so dark as he fucks her, as he *works* her — 

His hands are *shaking* — 

He grips her *tighter* — 

And Treville rakes her with his human claws, makes her arch and jerk between them, makes it necessary for Laurent to hold her, hold her tighter — 

She whines — 

She whimpers and moans and Laurent chops it to bits, *pounds* it to bits with his cock — 

And Treville can't help finding his rhythm, taking it for his own, making it his own — 

And Marie-Angelique shows them exactly what they're doing — 

Shows them — but she's heavy with child. She's — 

She's *giant* with child, as if she's carrying two or even *three* babes, and her breasts spill over Treville's hands, and — 

And they fuck her so *hard* — 

The veins show so blue through thin skin — 

She takes them so *well* — 

And somehow they all know that the babes are Treville's, that they're strong, magically *strong* and can *take* treatment like — 

But the fantasy shivers away when Treville reaches for her belly, reaches to cup, to feel — 

He wants to feel the *kicks* — she's not pregnant, yet. 

She's not — please let me *spend*, Laurent! 

Laurent groans, panting and — fuck, he's *working* Marie-Angelique's head on his big cock, lifting her up and *hauling* her down, again and again, again and *again* — 

"Laurent, *please*!" 

"*Fill her*," he says, growls, and pulls her down and down and *down*, holds her *down* as he grinds up and *into* her perfect face, beautiful face — 

*Sister* — 

Treville darts in and *bites*, and he won't break the skin, he won't misbehave, he *won't*, but he can bruise, he can make her *feel* him — 

Make her stay for him, stay open, stay loose, stay *ready* as he *slams* in — 

And in — 

And *in*, and there's nothing better than taking like this, than knowing he's going to fill the *right* hole, at last — 

Clenching-sweet-hungry *hole* — 

All his, all his — 

He bites a little *harder* — 

She *clenches* harder — 

And Treville breaks the bite to howl, to shove *in*, to spill, to fill her, just like Laurent said, fill her and fill her and — 

Oh, yes — 

Oh, *yes* — 

"Oh. Oh, good boy, brother. Good — is she taking all your seed?" 

Treville *slams* in again — 

*Again* — 

Marie-Angelique whimpers and whimpers — 

Laurent must be letting her breathe, but Treville can't look *up*, yet — 

"No, no, don't — nnh. Just give her everything. Make her full. Make her pregnant. Give us your babes." 

"Nuh — *God* —" 

And Marie-Angelique clenches so *tight* — 

Treville *grunts* — 

"Somehow — somehow you're still — holding back — oh. *Bite*. Bite *truly*!"

And the man in him wants to *protest*, but the rest of him is already shifting his teeth and — 

In — 

Marie-Angelique screams around Laurent's cock — 

And Treville loses himself, loses *all* of himself, because this — 

"Oh — oh, brother, when you lose control..." 

This is everything, this is *everything*, and it's *his*, a hand on his lead and a sister beneath him — 

*Around* him — 

Taking everything he *has* — 

He spurts *more* — 

Marie-Angelique's shock is a bright scent, a wild *colour* — 

He bites deeper and fucks her *hard*, spending and spending and — 

He will *have* her — 

He will — 

He will give — 

And the fantasy of her pregnancy-fat belly is back, and he wants it, he wants it, he'll do this every *month* until he *gets* it — 

"Oh — *brother —" And Laurent snarls. "*Wife*. *Spend*!" 

She goes *rigid* again, stiff and hungry and *shocked* in their arms — 

Treville pulls out of the bite and laps at the wounds, knowing the healing will send *strong* sensations through her, sharp and — 

She sobs and chokes and coughs and *wails*, wails like a — girl, like a girl, and clenches viciously hard — 

Treville's eyes roll up as he spurts *more* — 

And he ruts through *their* spend, takes her, *takes* her, and Omalayo, one of the witches who had *changed* him, one of the witches who had raised Amina, and the one who'd dreamed the most of him and Amina coming together and making a marriage — 

She'd said, once, that there was nothing more guaranteed than a pregnancy when a woman found her pleasure while you were giving her your seed — 

She'd offered *lessons* — 

And Marie-Angelique is laughing inside, laughing even as her body forces her to moan — 

Even as Laurent *fucks* her every moan — 

Oh, sweet, oh, *sweet* — 

Treville licks her more, laps at her, sister, good *sister*, keep her safe, keep her *close* — 

And Laurent *grunts* laughter — "You — you'll be visiting more — often —" 

"We're moving in," Treville says, rocking and rocking and *rocking* until he can slowly start *considering* stopping — 

Marie-Angelique *milks* him — 

He shudders and growls and *holds* her — 

And Laurent snarls again and *violently* fucks his wife's face. Just — 

Once upon a time, Reynard and Kitos had asked Treville to describe how Laurent went about fucking Marie-Angelique, to see if he'd actually taken any of their advice. 

Treville had described the matter in *detail* — 

Kitos and Reynard had *stared* at him — 

And then looked at each other — 

And then stared at him *more* — 

("What did *you* tell him, Fearless?" 

"To listen to *you* arseholes." 

"Well. He didn't." 

"Non. Non." 

"Unless he listened to the part about listening to her." 

"Ah, oui. And she is... ah... hm.") 

She is definitely, and also very, and — 

She's laughing even harder inside — hard enough that it's making her shake — 

Hmm, she might cough again. Treville strokes her gently, firmly — 

Resists the urge to stroke her belly — 

That's not where she needs it — 

Not yet... 

Not... 

Oh, but there's so much he can feel, so much the *power* in him can *almost* touch. This *isn't* his power — it isn't where witches of his sex *belong* — but he can still *feel* — 

She could be ripe *enough*!

There's a *chance* — 

Laurent *grunts*, rhythm stuttering — 

He starts up again just that fast — 

He's staring into Treville's eyes with wonder and *thrill* even as he *reams* Marie-Angelique's *face* — and Treville knows the question he's asking. 

"I — I can know. Soon." 

Marie-Angelique clenches round him *again* — 

Treville *grunts* — and *yanks* Marie-Angelique down against his crotch while he grinds and in and in and — 

"Oh. You like that, Laurent?" 

"B-brother —" 

"You like that I can feel it? My seed?" 

Laurent *molests* Marie-Angelique's curls, fucks her hard, *hard* — 

"You like that there can maybe... be a part of me *growing* in your wife?" 

Marie-Angelique groans in her *chest* — 

Laurent *shouts* — 

*Bucks* — 

"A part of me always with her," Treville says, rumbling low and stroking her hips. "A part of me always *in* her, always *touching* —" 

"HNH — nnh — *NNH* —" And Laurent grips Marie-Angelique's mussed hair and pale shoulder — 

Digs his fingers in against her soft *skin* — 

All of his *muscle* is standing out — 

And Treville can smell him spending, feel it and taste it — 

Almost. 

Marie-Angelique is swallowing every drop. 

Good girl.

Good girl. 

Treville keeps stroking her as his knot swells. She's not going anywhere. 

Laurent is panting — 

Sucking in great gasps of air and panting more — 

"I — oh — oh, but I must —" 

"Finish spending?" 

"Nnh —" And Laurent pulls out and spends on Marie-Angelique's cheek — 

She *gasps* — 

"Oh — I just needed — but now that I have, I feel *wasteful*," Laurent says, and frowns. 

Treville coughs a laugh. "You can always swipe it up and let Marie-Angelique *lick* it up?" 

"It's not the same. Or — my love, how do you feel about it?" 

"I — I — um. *God*. Give me a *moment*, please, husband," she says, and pants.

Treville goes back to the petting and stroking — 

(Yes, do keep that up.) 

Of course — 

(Unless you plan to stop if I don't fall pregnant?) 

I. Ah... 

Marie-Angelique giggles between them, letting her head fall to the bed between Laurent's thighs — 

"My love?" 

She giggles *harder* — 

Laurent looks a question at Treville — 

Treville hasn't the faintest idea. 

"Oh — oh, I can *feel* that communication now — more than I did before!" 

"You felt it *before*?" 

"She really did," Treville says — 

"Of *course* I — oh, husband," Marie-Angelique says, and pushes back up again — 

*Kneels* up slowly — 

Treville helps her do it, tugging her back until she can settle into a sprawl over his thighs —

"Oh — *oh*. You'd think I'd get used to — mm. Mmm." 

Laurent licks his lips. "I love how *satisfied* you look after my brother has knotted you." 

Marie-Angelique hums. "Do I look *un*satisfied after you've had me, husband?" 

"Hardly. But... there is a difference," he says, and strokes her cheek with the backs of his fingers. 

She purrs softly — 

And purrs again — 

And purrs *again* — "I — I... ah. Hm." 

"Yes, my love?" And Laurent raises an eyebrow. 

"I must admit to feeling... different." 

"Hmm. Brother? Thoughts?" 

"No changes as of yet. But... I've never knotted her when she's been this close to ripe. I've always been told that women feel... different, then." 

"We *do*. And — good heavens, Treville, does this mean you've never made love to a woman when she's been — but of course it does, doesn't it. You're *hopeless*!" 

Treville leans in and kisses the top of her head. "Perhaps I enjoy saving myself for quality, hmm?" 

"Oh, really? Is that how you want to put it?" 

"I —" 

"*Kitos* told me Amina turned you down *constantly*." 

Treville's breath hitches — and he turns Marie-Angelique to face him, as much as is possible. "She was the only other woman I asked. Does it seem so difficult to imagine? You're married to *Laurent*." 

"*Yes*, and I —" She licks her lips. "Amina preferred the company of men, I think. We never spent much time together," she says, and it's a question. 

It's a *raft* of questions, really, and — 

Treville can answer at least some of them, he thinks. "You want to know more about my relationship with her?" 

"*Yes*. I — did you want to give *her* a child? A blood-child?" 

"More than anything," Treville says, and that — was barely not a groan. 

"Oh... it *hurt* you that she wouldn't —" 

"I — I understood why —" 

"Did you?" 

And it stops Treville, right in his tracks. He licks his lips, and thinks back to a night when Amina had very much saved *herself* from a man who wouldn't even take 'not yet' for an answer, when Treville had *helped* Amina save herself from the resulting mess. 

After — 

After had just been the first of *many* times when Treville had wanted more. 

"She told me *once* that. That if she took me to her bed, she would never take anyone or anything else." 

"And what's wrong with —" 

"At the time, Marie-Angelique, I couldn't give her what I give you."

She frowns. 

Laurent strokes her messy cheek. "I did explain... the witches changed —" 

She kisses his slick fingertips. "They changed *him*, and I *do* understand, and I *know* he wasn't truly able to — to *see* women the way he does now, husband, but — Treville. *Brother*. If she loved you..." 

"She did. I think... I think she had guilt, and... terrible feelings about herself. The spells that changed me were only done to *protect* her, and her babe, and a part of her never forgave herself for allowing me to be used that way, even though it was what I *wanted*. I... that part I never could change her mind about. Not entirely." 

Marie-Angelique takes a quick breath — "Then... perhaps she was not so strange," she says, and smiles ruefully. 

"*You* would've had that guilt, my love?" 

"If I allowed old witches to use *you* and change *you* and — oh, Laurent. Of course. I still would *take* you if you offered — or." She smiles again. "I'd probably make you ask a great many times, now that I think about it." 

"Oh — my love?" 

"I'd probably make you ask again and again, in just the right ways to prove that definitely, *definitely* you weren't being manipulated by those witches, manipulated against *all inclination* — oh, God. And of course she had every reason to *believe* that any lust Treville felt for her *was* manipulation —" 

"Even after I told her it wasn't, yes," Treville says, cupping and stroking Marie-Angelique's arms and kissing the top of her head again. "Neither of *us* could ever know, after all. And then there were other complications." 

"What? *More*?" 

"*After* I was changed, I could *ask*, but I couldn't do more than that. I couldn't even fantasize properly, because she was my *liege*. And, until she showed me *any* sign that my desire was *allowed* — or remotely *welcome* — I was magically... blocked." 

"Did the witches *not* want you to be her husband? *Ever*?" 

Treville laughs. "They never did like me much. I was, by *every* measure, their *last* choice —" 

"Which *I* never understood," Laurent says — 

"Laurent. Brother. They first investigated me by enchanting pretty boys and sending them wandering past me. I dutifully picked every last *one* of those boys up and *filled* them with seed which the witches could then study to their hearts' content." 

"Yes, but you didn't *hurt* the boys, or do anything *untoward*, brother —" 

Treville snickers and leans in to whisper in Marie-Angelique's ear. "I think your husband might have a bit of a pash for me, sister." 

She giggles and reaches back to swat him — 

And Treville can't *not* think of the way Amina would smack him — 

And smack him *with* things —

And sometimes when they were in bed together — 

It was just one little *step* that they *could've* taken — 

"I think," Marie-Angelique says, "I think, perhaps, it grew easier for you to... dream about her once she had passed away?" 

Treville coughs a painful laugh — "I don't know if I would use the word 'easier'..." 

"But —" 

"But it became *possible*, yes. I would wake up hard *extremely* often in the months after she died, because the pent-up dreams and fantasies of *years* would come to me in my sleep, like I was a *boy*." And Treville barks a laugh, stroking down to Marie-Angelique's hips. "I haven't thought about that..." 

Laurent shuffles closer on his knees, hugging both of them. "Kitos, Reynard, and I talked about it, brother." 

"Did you? I — I know I was *awful* to all of you —" 

"You *asked* us not to try to make you talk about those dreams. We didn't know whether to listen to you about it or not. Kitos was vehemently against letting you go your own way, but... the magic..." 

Treville swallows. "Yes, I —" 

"Oh, you *idiots*," Marie-Angelique says, and shoves them *both* — 

"Wife —" 

"*Shut* it! You let him swallow *this*? His dreams of his — his magical *wife*?" 

"I..."

"Marie-Angelique, I *asked* them to —" 

"You don't get to *make* decisions like that, Treville! Not when you're *grieving*!" 

Treville frowns — 

Laurent frowns — 

Marie-Angelique sighs that way she has that sounds a bit like a dragon preparing to lay waste to something flammable — 

"Right, I can tell you're *upset*, Marie-Angelique —" 

"Because you're both being moronic," she says, quite calmly. 

"That's — that's somewhat *harsh*, my love —" 

"You *earned* it." 

"I —" 

"Shut it. Treville, what did you *do* when you woke up hard from those dreams?" 

"I — trained." 

"Exclusively?" 

"Yes." 

"And never *with* anyone, correct?" 

"Yes —" 

"Not even your *son*, who missed Amina just as much?" 

"I couldn't —" 

"So you trained, presumably until your erection passed —" 

"Yes —" 

"And *then* you let yourself be with people again?" 

"... eventually." 

"I see." 

Treville — licks his lips. "I begin to see your point." 

"*Do* you?" 

"I begin to *feel* your points stabbing me in multiple sensitive — fuck." 

"Oh, dear, brother. We made the wrong choice?" 

"Why are you asking the other *moron* in this bed?" 

"I..." And Laurent starts sweating. 

Treville leaves him to it. 

Treville leaves *them* to it, because there were so many nights when he'd begged the Amina who walked through his dreams to be a ghost, to be a *haunting* — 

Stay with him, *please* — 

They didn't have to do anything she didn't *want* to — 

But the Amina in his dreams would smile, would laugh and smile and shake her head — 

("We don't have to worry about that *anymore*, Jean-Armand!")

And — 

("We can have everything, finally everything —") 

And — 

("My sweet brother, take care of me, always take *care* of me!") 

And he'd always find himself crushing her body to his — 

And their clothes would be gone — 

And the world would be watching him kiss her, bite her, lick her purple-brown nipples hard, hard, so *hard* — 

Their brothers would watch her cry out and laugh and moan, somehow all at the same time — 

Wrap her strong arms round his neck — 

Wrap her long legs round his hips as he pushed *in* — 

("The next babe will be *ours*!")

He can't. He — 

He pulls himself *away* — 

He covers his face with his *hands* — 

He knows *exactly* how much of that Laurent and Marie-Angelique had seen — 

And *felt* — 

"All of it, brother," Laurent says — 

And Marie-Angelique reaches back and cups his side. "Brother. Was that... was it always like that?" 

"Sometimes... even more..." Treville swallows and drops his hands. "I'm sorry. I'm not here for this. I'm supposed to —" 

"Shh," Marie-Angelique says. "I brought her up. And I — I need you to know that I *appreciate* knowing this, even though the pain I can feel from you is frankly appalling. Oh, brother, your *grief*!" 

"I — loved her. I wanted — I. I wanted." 

Marie-Angelique sighs. "And this... with Porthos..." 

"Mm?" 

She laughs softly. "Do you really have to ask, brother?" 

Ah. "No, I don't," he says. "Porthos is exactly the boy we — all of us, including Amina; *especially* Amina — raised him to be, but he's not her. The only thing I ease by making love with him is my need *for* him. But I... fuck." 

"Yes?"

And Laurent is studying him hard. 

Treville shakes his head. "He told me, the night we first made love, how lonely he was in the months after Amina's death. How he *ached* to have me come to his bed..." 

"Oh..." Laurent winces. 

Marie-Angelique hisses between her teeth. "Precisely when you were being visited by those *dreams*." 

"I couldn't — I could barely look at *myself* the mornings after waking up from those dreams. How could I look at our son? Her son —" 

"*Brother* —" 

"No — I know. And it *kills* me that I left him alone when he needed me. I'll never forgive myself for that — and the thought of his pain, his *loneliness* — will *help* me, I think, keep from hurting him like that again. But... that was why. I'm just... figuring that out." 

Laurent takes a shuddering breath. 

Marie-Angelique leans back against him a little harder — 

Treville takes the gift for what it is and hugs them *both* hard. 

"Oh — yes, *that*, brother," Laurent says. 

"I... should have talked." 

"Yes," Marie-Angelique says, with quiet *force*. 

"I should've — I needed her so much!" 

"Were you afraid, brother, of *diluting* the dreams' power?" 

"I — fuck. Yes. *Yes*. And — she was *mine*. She was always mine, and I didn't want to show her — ah, God, I'm an *idiot*." 

Laurent squeezes them tighter — 

Marie-Angelique reaches back and squeezes his *sides* — "You're allowed to speak about the dreams *now*, brother." 

Treville blinks. 

And — blinks. 

And... blinks — 

Marie-Angelique giggles hard. "Oh — oh, that always feels so *odd* when your knot is plugging me like a cork. Mm. I — that thought honestly hadn't occurred to you. Had it." 

"I —" 

"*Had* it."

"No." 

Marie-Angelique sighs. "I find myself *utterly* certain that I'm going to spend the rest of my *life* stumbling over idiocies the two of you have left lying around, like daggers in the nursery." 

"That —" 

"Laurent. Are you about to say something about *fairness*?" 

"I *was* going to, my love, but, at the moment, that seems less than wise." 

Treville snickers helplessly. 

"And what are *you* laughing about?" 

Treville *coughs*. "Oh, just the fact that you're also mentally connected to Kitos, Reynard, Porthos, *and* Aramis, now —" 

"What." 

"So, you'll have their idiocies to contend with, too." 

"I... ah. Ah. What?" 

Treville snickers *hard* — 

Marie-Angelique *swats* him — "When were you going to *tell* me?" 

"He did say that you were part of his *pack* now, my love —" 

Marie-Angelique growls — 

And Treville's cock flexes with decided interest. 

Marie-Angelique grunts. 

Laurent hums and leans in to lick Marie-Angelique's face clean in two broad laps — 

"Oh —" 

"Is it time to think of happier things, brother?" 

"Wait —" 

"*Yes*," Treville says, and moves his hands to Marie-Angelique's breasts again, cupping them and thumbing the nipples — 

She *grunts* — "*Treville* —" 

"— with the understanding that we will return to *this* topic at another time," he says, and licks her temple. "Mm?" 

"Oh — *soon*." 

"Agreed," Laurent says — 

"Agreed," Treville says. "I..." He laughs softly. "I need it too much not to." 

"Oh — brother. Do you need it *now*?" 

"No. But... soon." 

Marie-Angelique squeezes his side again. "And you'll tell Kitos and Reynard this, too? You'll make sure —" 

"I will," Treville says. "If only because *Laurent* will be making sure they know as soon as he gets a spare *second* —" 

"I most certainly *will*, brother." 

Treville laughs more. "So. On the question of *relief*." 

"Oh —" 

"Oh." 

"Ah..." 

Treville grins. "It's a bit hard, isn't it?" He kisses the top of Marie-Angelique's head. "It's all well and good in the heat of the moment — and did Laurent tell you about the heated moment we had...?" 

"He did, yes..." 

"Mm. It's harder like this. When everyone's all relaxed and we have to face facts like *adults*." 

"Oh — *God*," Marie-Angelique says, and covers her face — 

And Laurent shivers and gives him a pleading look. 

"Now I can let you both off the hook. I *can*," Treville says. "But I honestly don't think I should. As Laurent says, the matter is growing *acute*, and —" 

"I — I want to make love with — my sons." 

Marie-Angelique moans. "I want Laurent to make love with our sons. I want to *watch* him make love with our sons." 

Treville bounces her breasts in his hands. "And...?" 

"And," she says, and licks her lips. "I want — to make love with them, too." 

Treville nods. "All right, then. You might think you've taken a major step a moment ago, but you really didn't. You already wanted them. You already *knew* you wanted them. You were already *fantasizing* about them. You were already *placing* yourselves within those fantasies and — well... well. The only step you just took was the one where —" 

"We agreed to stop stewing in our own private Hells about it, brother?" 

"Perhaps more *marinating* in my case, husband, I —" Marie-Angelique shakes her head and shivers. "What are we *doing*?" 

"*Relieving* yourselves. With my help," Treville says, and reaches for Laurent with one hand, cups his cheek — 

Laurent covers Treville's hand with his own — 

And Treville grins. "Tell me a fantasy." 

Laurent shivers. "Which of us?" 

"Which *one*?" 

Treville raises his eyebrows. "Are there so many...? Have you talked about them between you?" 

"Not... precisely," Laurent says. 

"I," Marie-Angelique begins, but then doesn't go anywhere in particular. 

Treville hums. "All right. I've an idea." 

"Oh — I think anything you suggest would be helpful at this point, brother," Marie-Angelique says — 

"Yes —" 

And Treville covers Marie-Angelique's eyes with one hand and Laurent's eyes with the other. 

Laurent grunts — 

Marie-Angelique inhales sharply — 

And both of them... pause. 

Treville waits them out. 

After another moment, Laurent licks his lips. "You don't feel this would be... backsliding, brother?" 

Marie-Angelique nods, slightly, careful not to dislodge his hand. 

"We all know we're here," Treville says. "I've changed nothing but... perception." 

"But perception can make quite a — difference," Marie-Angelique says, and licks *her* — swollen — lips. "Yes, I see. I — ah. I miss bathing them." 

"So you'd mentioned," Treville says, and watches Laurent shiver — no. "Can you feel your husband shivering for that?" 

"Yes. Yes, Treville." 

"Good. Go on." 

"I miss — they were always remarkably quiet and *solemn* children — I had younger siblings, so I thought I had a fair idea of what to expect from children when I had my own, but I clearly had no idea — but they would... unbend, to a certain extent, in the bath." 

Laurent makes a soft sound — 

Marie-Angelique reaches out — 

And they fumble, for a moment, before they manage to take each other's hands and squeeze. 

Treville nods. "More?" 

"I want — Thomas would... perform, at times. Sing and dance and play..." 

"For... for you, my love?" 

"Oh, yes, but often primarily for Olivier, who would take the role of Discerning Audience, and gaze at his little brother with wide and sparkling eyes — I thought, more than once, that Thomas would do anything to keep that gaze on him. To... *maintain* that." 

Laurent growls — 

"Yes, yes —" 

"Don't stop," Treville says. 

Marie-Angelique cries out slightly — 

Moans — 

"They're so much *older* now, so — so *strong* —"

"*Yes* —" 

"I — I think of Olivier's strong, lean body taking up much of the bath, naked or... or *teasingly* draped —" 

"Oh — oh, *wife* —" 

"He's sitting up on his elbows, and the scar low on his ribs from when he convinced you to spar with *steel*, *Treville* —" 

"I apologize — again —" 

"Hmph. I — no. That scar — it's dark in the candlelight. Even when his breathing starts to grow... rough." 

Laurent moans. 

Treville kisses the top of her head. "Why is his breathing rough? Is Thomas there?" 

She shivers. "Yes. Yes. He has... a play. I don't even know which one. Something romantic. He's asked permission to skip all the comedic and plotty parts so he can *just* act out the romantic parts —" 

"Oh. Oh, he *would* —" 

"And Olivier would *let* him," she says, "Olivier would *always* let him —" 

"And —" Laurent shakes Treville's hand free, and tugs his other hand away from Marie-Angelique's face — 

"Oh —" 

"My love —" 

"Husband —" 

"Is Olivier *hard*." 

Marie-Angelique makes a *hurt* noise — 

Moans *hungrily* — 

"He doesn't — he doesn't *touch* himself. He's hard, but he doesn't — I'm kneeling on my little cushion and washing him slowly, carefully, *thoroughly*, but he never looks *away* from Thomas. Not. Not even when I take his cock in hand —" 

Treville grunts *with* Laurent — 

"Not even when I start to stroke him, when I — when I *blush*, because I realize that I only know two *techniques* for stroking a man, and I realize I'll need to learn something new." 

Laurent growls and *yanks* her in for a kiss — 

"MM —" 

Treville places as subtle a wall as he can between his thoughts and theirs — 

He's not going to offer to teach her new ways to stroke cocks. 

He's not going to offer to walk her *through* the learning process with her sons. 

He's not — 

"Brother...?"

"Where — what are you —" And Marie-Angelique reaches back for him — 

"I'm here," Treville says, taking her small hand and squeezing — 

"But where did you *go*?"

Treville *looks* at Laurent — 

Who nods. "There are times, my love, when our brother must retreat to a private space —" 

"*No*. No, not — not *now*. I will *accept* that we *all* need privacy from time to *time*, brother, but — oh, God. *Please*!"

Treville winces — 

Winces *hard* — and licks her temples — 

"Don't just *lick* me — " 

He cups her hips. "I was... trying to put my own lust for your sons into a manageable context, so I didn't suggest anything *untoward*." 

Marie-Angelique blinks — Treville can feel it *inside*. "Just... that?" 

"Yes. You may have guessed that I have a bit of a self-control problem when it comes to boys of a certain age." 

The sound she makes is closer to a squawk than anything else — 

And Laurent coughs into his fist — 

And Treville kisses her ear and strokes her belly. "But I won't leave you again. I promise." 

"Oh — thank you — and I'm *sorry* —" 

"Shh. It's all right. Perhaps we'll all... relieve each other," he says, and rolls his hips *up* —

Marie-Angelique *gasps* — 

And Laurent growls — "Will you need to have her again?" 

Treville smiles ruefully. "At this rate? Yes. Or, at the very least, stay tied for —" 

"No, you'll have her. You'll... mm." And Laurent reaches down to stroke Marie-Angelique's belly with him. "You don't know if she's pregnant, yet." 

"Not yet, no. Even my power needs time." 

Laurent nods once. "There's nothing to say we can't give your... power some insurance." 

*Treville* growls and strokes down to Marie-Angelique's sex, to her still-swollen pleasure-button — 

"Ah —" 

He strokes it lightly, just to the side — 

"Please!" 

"You're stroking Olivier's cock. He's watching Thomas *perform*. What happens next?" 

She moans — that *belling* moan that hits inside and out, that makes every part of him sit up and take *notice* — 

"Tell us," he says, and rubs his hardest calluses on her nipple — 

"Oh, yes — *yes* —" 

And Laurent cups her throat — 

Forces her to look *up* — 

She swallows with *difficulty* — 

"Tell us." 

"Yes! Olivier, he — he grows flushed, and — and almost *distressed*. He's so hard, so *hungry*, but he wants to see his brother *perform*, wants to pay *attention* —" 

"You're making it *difficult*," Treville says. 

"*Yes*. He begs me — in a murmur, so as not to interrupt Thomas — to stop, but I tell him I have to wash him everywhere, that he's — very dirty —" 

Laurent pants — 

Treville's knot *throbs* — 

He *works* her little pleasure-button — 

She *groans* — 

"Keep *going*, my love —" 

"Yes — *fuck* — I — he starts gasping, making soft little sounds. Helpless sounds. I tell him that this is how I touch you, husband, that this — oh, God, oh, God — that this is how I get you *clean* —" 

Treville growls and *thrusts* — 

Marie-Angelique cries out — and *croaks* when Laurent squeezes her throat — 

"No, no, I don't want you *quiet*," Laurent says, and releases her — 

Marie-Angelique gasps — 

*Whimpers* — 

"Oh, my love, what — what of *Thomas*?" 

"He comes *closer*. Especially — nnh — *nnh* — oh, *please*, brother, slow *down*!" 

Treville *grunts* and forces himself to do just that. He'd begun to *rock* into Marie-Angelique, and that — 

He licks her twice. "Tell me, tell us, go on —" 

"Thomas comes closer," she *pants*. "Especially when Olivier starts making louder noises for the knowledge that he's being touched just like. Just like his *father*. Thomas leans over the tub, and we *both* see that Olivier is flushed, sprawled, tense, *needy*. Thomas — mn. He crawls in immediately. He *cuddles* with his brother —" 

"Oh, boys — *boys* —" 

"Olivier *clutches* Thomas as I bring him closer to spending, and he — sometimes Olivier mutters desperate things — I'm never sure what! He turns his head and buries it against Thomas's *throat* —" 

Laurent shudders and stares hungrily, hard again, *ready* again —

And Marie-Angelique moans and gurgles as Laurent squeezes a little harder again. "Oh, Laurent!" 

"Don't *stop*." 

"I won't! Olivier starts *kissing* Thomas's throat, starts panting and biting and sucking at it, and — and Thomas shudders and *croons* and clutches Olivier *tight*, cock lifting and filling." 

Treville licks his lips. "Does he promise to take care of his brother?" 

Marie-Angelique makes a guttural sound. "They *both* promise, and that's when I start stroking Olivier so — so *fast*. He doesn't last. He doesn't — I make him *mark* Thomas with his spend even as he writhes and squirms and... oh — *ohn* —" 

Treville rocks *in* — 

And *in* — 

And she's hot around him, tight and swollen, tight and so *good*, perfect to rock *into*, to feel the *grip* of her — 

She whimpers and pants — 

"Do you stroke." Treville growls and pets her, *has* her —

She shudders and *groans* — 

"Do you stroke Thomas *off* in the fantasy, sister?" 

"I — I teach Olivier how to *bathe* him —" 

"I want all of *this*," Laurent says — 

"It — it falls apart in my mind —" 

Treville strokes her pleasure-button fast, fast — 

"*Ahn* —" 

"How so, sister? How does it fall apart?" 

She moans and moans and *grips* Laurent's cock, squeezing it *hard* — 

He grunts and grips her *breast* with the hand he doesn't have on her throat — 

Treville *thrusts* — 

Marie-Angelique *shouts* — 

And for a moment they're just rutting together, working together, *using* each other, loud and *hungry* — 

So *loud* — 

"I can't — I can't —" Laurent growls and *pumps* into Marie-Angelique's hand — 

"What — what can't you *do*, brother?" 

"I want Thomas to *tell* Olivier how to bathe him —" 

"*Yes*," Marie-Angelique says, groans, *shakes* — "That's how it falls apart! He's too — he wouldn't let me direct Olivier to touch him — touch him that way —" 

Treville starts giving her pleasure-button the long strokes along the side that always make her bounce on his cock and *keen* — 

Oh, just like this — 

Just like *this* — 

Laurent makes a strangled noise and pinches and rolls her nipple with his right hand, *massages* her throat with his left — 

She gurgles and *screams* — 

Strokes him fast and *brutally* — 

And Treville can't seem to take his other hand off her belly, can't — 

He's fucking her hard now, *having* her, and he can't let *go* — 

He has to feel her here, so soft, so — 

He has to *feel* her here, because the pregnancy hasn't happened, yet — 

It *can't* happen, yet — 

But it will. 

It — 

Treville howls and slams in, in, *in*, and he knows his brother and sister will need an explanation, knows his *pack* will need — 

Oh, but he can reach — 

He can *show* — 

(Oh —) 

(Oh, *brother* —) 

(I'm going to have —!) And Marie-Angelique clenches around him *violently*, croons — 

Laurent kisses her all over her face, takes his hand off her throat and twines it with her own on his cock, makes her stroke him even more *brutally* — 

"Oh — *oh* — *please*!" 

But Treville doesn't have words, doesn't have — 

He feels himself flushed — not all over. Just everywhere he's not growing *fur* —

Not bristling and *shifting* — 

Roiling — 

Pawing and *clawing* — 

He needs — 

"*Treville*," Laurent snaps. "Control yourself!" 

Treville stops thrusting immediately, whines and *stops* — 

"Pull yourself *back*." 

He shrinks down and looks *up* at Laurent — 

"Do it!" 

And then — 

And then he can, he can, and his hands are hands, and his teeth are human teeth, and — 

His cock is exactly the same as it had been. His knot hadn't even *begun* to change to the dog's smaller knot — 

He's not in the least bit surprised by that. 

He licks Marie-Angelique in apology — 

He licks her again, slowly and gently, carefully — he doesn't smell blood. He hadn't scratched her. 

He stays low. 

He stays *still* — 

He keeps his hands to *himself* — 

Marie-Angelique is panting — 

Laurent is panting, too. And, after a moment, gripping Treville by the hair. "You became... a little too excited?" 

"Yes, Laurent," he says, and stares at the trio of beauty marks just below the dimple on Marie-Angelique's left shoulder. 

He stays. 

He stays. 

"You lost control." 

"Yes, Laurent." 

"You — nearly — became the *dog*." 

Marie-Angelique shivers and shivers and — 

He licks her again, right on the beauty marks — 

Slowly — 

"Yes, Laurent." 

Laurent licks his lips. "Will the child — or children..." He trails off. 

Treville doesn't look up. 

Treville doesn't — he smells fear. From both of them. 

No. He looks up. "Laurent? Sister?" 

Marie-Angelique cups her belly. "Will they *shift*, Treville? Will they do it in my *womb*?" 

Treville's stomach *drops* — and he reaches for the child, for — 

They're not there, yet. 

Not — 

He can't *do* anything, yet, because the child isn't — 

"*Treville* —" 

"You have to *answer*!" 

And he can *think*. He shakes himself like the animal he is and grips Marie-Angelique's hips. "Porthos wasn't able to shift until he'd come fully into his power as a fourteen-year-old —" 

"But —" 

"But he isn't my blood, I know. For this, you have to consider other things. Amina and I shared blood — and everything *else* — while Porthos was still in her *womb*. Porthos and I shared blood — and *nearly* everything else — from the time he was an infant. For this — I think we must consider him the measure for this," Treville says, and sniffs them — 

Too much fear, too much fear — 

Oh — "And — I'll be able to sense much, and *control* much about the babe once he or she starts forming —" 

"He — she — they haven't?" And Marie-Angelique is trying to see him better — 

"No —" 

"Then how do you...?"

"I can feel that the pregnancy *will* happen. That... there's no chance of failure." 

And — there's fear-sweat on Marie-Angelique's throat. 

There's so much she hadn't *considered* — 

Laurent is staring *worriedly* at him — as well he should. 

Neither of them are as aroused as they were a few minutes ago. 

Treville settles Marie-Angelique on his knot what he can *feel* is more comfortably — 

"Oh —" 

— and licks the fear-sweat away, quick and neat — 

"Treville — brother —" 

"I'm here." 

She laughs explosively. "You — you have me *tied*." 

He smiles ruefully. "So I do." 

"What happens when you're not *here* to control the babe?" 

He shakes his head and keeps licking — and he's not at all surprised that one of his hands has migrated back to her belly. He *stops* licking. "I can make the babe sleep in you, if that's what needs to happen, but —" 

"Did you — did you make Porthos sleep in Amina?" 

"No. He was an active, strong babe who didn't hurt his mother in any but the normal ways." 

Marie-Angelique makes a soft sound and curls in on herself a little. 

Treville licks — no. "What can I say, Marie-Angelique? What do you need me to say, or do? How can I reassure you?" 

She laughs, wild and just a little crazed for all that it's soft. 

Laurent moves closer, and they hold her between them for long minutes. They — 

They hold her. 

Laurent kisses the top of her head again, again and again — 

Treville's knot refuses to *shrink* — 

And, after a while, Marie-Angelique takes a long, shuddering breath, and says: "It was — all play. Until tonight. Until *now*." 

Treville blinks — 

Laurent reaches tentatively within them to *search* —

"Oh — I didn't truly *have* you! Not either of you! I didn't have — the feel of you. This *warmth*." 

And Treville knows what she means, remembers what the *absence* of his brothers had been like — 

"*Yes* — oh, brother, why did you leave me *out*?" 

Laurent shakes his head helplessly. 

"We didn't think," Treville says, and lets it be precisely as pained and shamed as it *should* be. 

He — 

He remembers the cold of *absence* — 

And Marie-Angelique nods, once, very clearly leaving the rest behind for now. 

Very clearly telling *them* to leave it. "There is... much I didn't have." 

"Yes, my love —" 

And Treville nods. 

"I didn't have the *weight* of our brother's *regard* — are you always so *watchful*, Treville?" 

"I..." 

"*Is* he, Laurent?" 

"He cares for us. In a different way from Kitos." 

Treville swallows and tries to *stop* petting her belly — he can't. 

He can't. 

Marie-Angelique shudders and shivers and moans. "I'm going to have your *baby*." 

"Yes. *Yes*. And I — I'll do what you *wish* —" 

"I — I can *feel* that you want to — to *crawl* up my cunt and — oh, *brother*. Do I... smell... different?" 

"Not... yet. But I know that you will." 

Marie-Angelique moans again. "Will Laurent be able to...?" 

"I — I'm not certain. I tried countless times to describe the differences in Amina's scents to Kitos and Reynard, but they never caught more than hints of them. I think, perhaps, that Laurent is more sensitive." 

Laurent growls and breathes her hair in — 

Her throat — 

Treville points him to the space just beneath and behind her ear — 

"Oh... Aramis is *constantly* bruised here —" 

"Porthos can't resist —" 

"Why is *Porthos* so rarely bruised here?" 

Well... 

Laurent *pins* him with a look. 

Treville grunts — "I'm in love with the small of his back, and his cleft is *always* swollen and bruised — you don't give his horsemanship enough credit —" 

Laurent *coughs* — 

Marie-Angelique giggles — and watches every nuance of this conversation. She would've been able to feel that there was more even before, Treville would wager.

"And... I'm not immune to concerns about the image he presents to the other men, especially since he *is* immune." 

"Mm. And he simply *insists* on making it obvious beyond words that Aramis is — his." 

"Oh, yes. And I knew from the very beginning that he *would*... so. *I* don't mark him like the greedy lover I am." 

"In the hopes that the men will spare him at least *some* of their... well." 

Treville offers about half of a shrug. "It's a desperate and somewhat pathetic hope, but it's mine." 

"He's still just as talented as he was before he took a lover so thoroughly."

"And he's still the same cheerful, loving, *expansive* boy he's ever been, but we both know that his talent is a double-edged sword, and that his personality won't cut it with — some." 

"*Only* some." 

Treville nods. "He'll lack his commission for some time, yet, and — there are some battles that he and Aramis will have to fight without us." 

"And without our advice?" 

"Never that. I've given him what I can, from the perspective of a buggerer in the military who very much flaunted his status despite all reason and sense, even as a young man —" 

"And taught him a dozen more dirty tricks —" 

"And taught him significantly more than a dozen more dirty tricks — they'll be all right. So long as Porthos keeps Aramis from stabbing the people who disrespect him in *fatal* ways, and so long as Aramis keeps Porthos from literally biting the heads off people who disrespect *him*." 

Marie-Angelique clears her *throat* — 

And Laurent immediately cups her belly *with* Treville. 

Treville rumbles — 

Licks her temples — 

And Laurent licks two of his fingers and holds them up with a questioning look — 

She flushes — "I — I wanted more *talk*." 

"But what kind of talk did you want, my love?" 

Treville cups her breast again with his other hand, *rubs* her nipple back and forth and back again — 

"*Mm* —" 

Treville nips her ear. "If you're amenable... I could ask Laurent to share a fantasy." 

She clenches around him — 

She reaches up to cup Laurent's face, pulling him down for a hard kiss, a *hungry* kiss — 

Laurent slips his wet fingers down, stroking where Treville has tied her just once before — 

And Marie-Angelique starts to bounce on Treville's cock, starts to keen and *work* herself — 

Treville licks her ear. "Good girl, good *girl* —" 

"Unh —" 

"I'm not so creative as my wife," Laurent says, and licks her mouth — 

"Please —" 

"— but perhaps I can distract us from questions which have no sure answers —" 

"*Don't* —" 

Laurent *bites* her mouth — 

Treville twists her nipple — 

And Marie-Angelique shouts — 

Whimpers — 

"Good girl," Laurent says. "We'll discuss *our* children now." 

"Yes — yes, *please*!" 

Laurent pants once and growls — "How you *arouse* me —" 

"Will I — will I still? With another man's babe in —" 

Laurent groans, cock jerking and *spattering* her belly — 

"Oh, *Laurent* —" 

"There were — this was never a *game* for me —" 

"Even though we didn't think everything through?" 

"Even so, my love." 

Treville pauses touching her nipple — 

He *knows* Laurent has paused on her pleasure-button — 

"Even though we didn't *talk* everything through? Even though we didn't converse all night and into the day — oh, Laurent, did you — did you talk about this at all with *Treville*?" 

Treville laughs softly — 

And Laurent smiles. "No, my love —" 

"Then is it just one of the things you just *knew* because he was your brother?" And she looks back and forth between them. "Your *pack*?" 

And that's a good question, but — 

But. 

"I can honestly say that I never knew that Laurent wanted me to *impregnate* you, Marie-Angelique." 

"But did you —" She makes a distressed sound.

They stroke her, pet her , hug her — 

"Oh — *fuck*. The *two* of you." 

"What do you *need*, my love? I will *give* it to you, I will *always* give it to you —" 

Treville kisses her ear. "Is it — do you wonder if I were truly surprised? That this — this *idea* just sat between Laurent and me unspoken and assumed?" 

"*Yes*! I — because I feel so much, and everything *in* me says I must relax, that I must let this happen, that all is *well*..." 

Treville rumbles, tucks his head in against her throat and licks and licks and licks — 

"It seems — incorrect. Or — too easy. Or planned? I don't know!" 

Laurent leans in and kisses her a dozen times if her kisses her once. "It's none of those things, my love. We — we were all swept *up*." 

Treville nips her throat — 

"*Ah* —" 

"Trust your *instincts*," he says, and cups her belly with both hands — 

*Splays* his hands — 

"How much do *you* do that?"

"All the time," Treville says, and licks her temples again — 

"And I trust his instincts — we all trust his, and he trusts ours —" 

"But..." She frowns. 

Laurent strokes her cheek. "My love? You trust your own instincts —" 

"Of course I do! But I don't have — have *lives* depending on what I do and don't do, what I do and don't *say*!" 

Treville raises an eyebrow. "Does that make your actions and words less correct?" 

"Oh — God! *No*, but — do you truly not see what I'm *saying*?" 

Laurent licks his lips. "I can feel, I think, what you mean — " 

"The stakes are higher —" 

"And so, it seems, we must be more careful, my love?" 

"*Yes*!" 

Treville strokes Marie-Angelique's belly. "We've learned — the *bitterly* hard way — that not trusting our instincts leads to pain, and death, and horror." 

Marie-Angelique grunts, drawing back — 

"My love?" 

"That... that doesn't seem as though it should... be correct." 

Laurent smiles ruefully. "Many things don't that are —" 

"Don't — don't." 

Laurent winces and nods, also drawing back. 

That's — wrong. Treville growls. 

Marie-Angelique jerks, clenching in shock — 

Crying *out* — 

Treville grips her *hips* again — 

"Brother — brother, wait —" 

"*Sister*," he says, and growls in her ear. "What do your instincts say right *now*?" 

And she's silent for a long moment — 

And silent — 

And *silent* — he gives her a small *shake* — 

"Oh, *God*!"

"*Answer*." 

"It — it — my *instincts* are telling me to *let* you convince me to toss everything I've learned about how to be a woman, how to be an adult, how to be a sister, how to — to raise a *family* in the *chamberpot*. Everything — everything I was raised to *know*, to *understand*!" 

Treville strokes her. 

Just strokes her. 

Just — 

"You — you can't *tell* me you find things like this *easy*!" 

"Never easy. Never that," Treville says, and laps at the agitation-sweat on her throat. Takes it away. 

"Only necessary, my love. Only — it's how we survive." 

Marie-Angelique makes a small, pained sound — 

Treville pauses — 

Sniffs — 

But Laurent is already holding them both. Treville responds in kind. 

"I'm not a *coward*!" 

He *has* to — "You're not." 

"You can't — the two of you can't treat me —" 

"We've asked you to accept a great deal in a very small period of time, my love," Laurent says. "Please remember that we've all had many years —" 

(Yes, we sodding well *have*,) *Kitos* says — 

"Oh, *God*!" 

(I'm sorry to interrupt, Marie-Angelique, and I *promise* I wasn't peeking in on anything on anything I shouldn't —) 

"What — you — *Kitos* —"

(It's just that things got *really* exciting on this link when that pregnancy was assured — anyway. Don't whallop on yourself, please. My — *our* brothers over there don't *mean* to rush you like a mad carter with an overworked horse, but that's exactly what they're doing. Take it slow. Think about it. Make them — and the rest of us! — *explain* it to you. I promise we want to.) 

Marie-Angelique swallows, and reaches within them — 

*Strokes* Kitos — 

(Thank you very kindly, sister. Is there anything you'd like to ask me now?) 

Marie-Angelique blushes and shakes her head — (I mean — I mean, no. I need to speak to Laurent and Treville more right now.) 

(You do that,) Kitos says. (We'll be right here.) 

(Reynard is...?) 

(Here, Marie-Angelique,) Reynard says, and his smile twines round and teases all of them for a moment. (I am... doing my best to keep the boys from butting in, at present.) 

(Oh, *God* — please keep doing that!) 

(Mais oui. Please, *interrogate* our brothers, sister. They *deserve* it. We do, too, but you'll want us in swatting range.) 

Marie-Angelique giggles — 

Kitos and Reynard pull *back* — 

And Marie-Angelique smiles at both of them. 

Laurent kisses her. "Is it better, my love?" 

"I... tell me more about this baby? About... about *why* you want it so badly." 

Laurent grins perfectly *madly* — "With pleasure," he says, and grins at Treville — 

And Treville notices that his own hands have migrated back to Marie-Angelique's belly. He's going to have to watch that in public — 

"Oh — probably, brother, but — but..." And Laurent licks his lips and looks back and forth between them. "I'm so happy." 

"Tell me *why*, husband!" 

"I suppose part of it is that I always wanted to have my brother's child myself —" 

Marie-Angelique and Treville *both* cough — 

"But that's only a — hrm. Small part," Laurent says, and smiles ruefully again, pushing one hand gently between Treville's on Marie-Angelique's belly — 

Marie-Angelique shivers — 

"Oh, my love," he says, and looks *hungrily* down at the soft roundness of her belly, and the splay of their hands — "I've wanted this, in some ways, since the day we all first came to visit you, Marie-Angelique. You were so witty, so sharp, so *ruthless* with us —" 

"I'd had *years* of bon mots pent up to share — you'd made me wait for so *long* —" 

"I will always *regret* that — I feared marriage would take me away from — well." And Laurent looks up again — 

"Your brothers?" 

"Especially my little brother Treville. My — my... he'd only *just* become my lover, and the possibilities between us were endless, and — he'd reminded me of who I was supposed to be. The man who didn't keep ladies who only wished to come to *know* me *waiting*." 

"Oh — *Laurent*..." 

Treville covers Laurent's hand on Marie-Angelique's belly. 

He shudders and sighs. "I thought — the *best* case scenario was that you would be a wonderful woman who would excoriate me for having kept you waiting for so long, and I would take it with good grace, and apologize, and then go back to being a bachelor with my brothers." 

"You — *idiot*!" 

Laurent grins crookedly. "Yes. You — took me." 

"Of course I did! I would've rescinded my invitation by *post* if you hadn't *persisted* in being precisely who I wanted — oh, Laurent, you — I'm running out of *words* for 'idiot'!" 

"I'm terribly sorry —" 

Marie-Angelique laughs hard —

And Laurent kisses her, and kisses her — "You welcomed my brother, as well." 

"Of course! He was perfectly charming, and it was obvious beyond words that he was at least part of the reason why you had finally *come* to me —" 

"Oh. Was it?" 

"*Yes*. He kept looking at you with — with such *pride*. Like you were finally doing exactly what you were supposed to be doing." 

Treville ducks his head — 

"Oh. I thought — all this time I thought you had simply recognized his many fine qualities right away —" 

"And wanted to make love with him?" 

"Yes?" 

Marie-Angelique laughs *hard* again — "*Laurent*." 

"Hm." 

Marie-Angelique reaches up to cup his cheeks. "I love you so *much*." 

"I begin to wonder *why*..." 

"It took me *quite* some time to wish to share our love with Treville." 

"Yes? I —" 

"Oh, yes. Do you remember the picnic we all went on? And you brought a *stack* of books with you and Treville brought a *massive* amount of wine because he *knew* you'd bring a stack of books?" 

Treville coughs — 

Laurent blinks — "That — that was the *second* time we were all together, my love..." 

"Oh, yes. As you can see, I needed a great deal of time to deliberate." 

And Laurent's eyes are shining — 

Treville licks Marie-Angelique's ear. "We all learned to bring extra alcohol on outings with Laurent. Just in case." 

"Your... pack?" 

"Our pack now." 

She shivers again and presses back against him — 

Treville squeezes her tight, buries his face in her curls and breathes her *in* — 

"I don't know if I can describe... if I can ever describe how it feels to see the two of you together," Laurent says, sitting back on his heels, and gesturing as if to make him and Marie-Angelique part of a portrait. 

"Mm? Husband?" 

"I don't know if I can ever say how much..." He moans and brushes a lock of Marie-Angelique's hair out of her face. "I love you both so much. I've *loved* you both so much. You... you both entered my life like *lightning*, scattering the trash I had gathered before and burning it to *ash*. I — I have been *fixated* on Treville since he was a boy of fourteen, and I was the nominal adult assigned to make a soldier out of him. I had only barely *told* Treville about you, about the woman my late parents had chosen for me, and who had agreed to a betrothal sight unseen — after only being given a list of my *qualities*! — and who had been waiting years for me to agree to *see* her...

"He *urged* me to your side. Gently, kindly, and with brotherly *affection*, of course, but he still — 

"He *knew*. He knew that it was *right* for me to go to you, and so, when the two of you began getting along so famously... 

"When the two of you began laughing for each other's jokes, and smiling into each other's eyes, and *gazing* into each other's eyes as if there were worlds in them you wished to *explore*..." Laurent moans. "I ached for us all to be together. I *ached* for it. I didn't think of a child, at first — what did I know of children? — but lovemaking. So much..." 

Laurent growls — 

Licks his lips again — 

Growls *more* — "It seemed so *perfect* that Treville had been *changed* into a man who could make love with women just before we three came together. It would've been too *much* for us all to be *acquainted* and not be able to even *fantasize* about a future when we *could* all make love. I'm afraid I hounded him, Marie-Angelique. I... I needed him to *believe* in the world I believed in, where the three of us were together, long before I could broach the topic with you." 

Treville laughs softly. "I imagined a long future of great awkwardness and sexual frustration on my visits to this manor." 

Marie-Angelique coughs — "Oh — *oh*. You thought I'd say *no*?" 

"It is *somewhat* outré... but," Treville says, and strokes up to her breasts again, bouncing them and giving them a *hard* squeeze — 

"Nnh — oh — *brother* —" 

"I didn't know you so well, then." 

"Neither of us did," Laurent says. "Neither of us knew that you would... that you would *take* us, all of us, just as we were —" 

"Of course —" 

"Wait. Please?" 

Marie-Angelique inhales sharply — and nods. 

"Thank you," Laurent says solemnly. "We are... not accustomed to you. Because you are the only Marie-Angelique there is, in a world populated with people who are decidedly not you."

"Populated," Treville says, "with people who don't accept us, at all. Who don't *welcome* us." 

"Who don't *want* us," Laurent says. "They may desire our protection —" 

"Our *power* —" 

"But they most assuredly don't want *us*. They... have no functional understanding of what it means to be a Musketeer, and, to be perfectly honest, they don't want that understanding. *That* is what we're accustomed to." 

"That's what the world is," Treville says. 

"Yes. Henri... he knew, I think, much of what we were. Certainly, he understood why we were *necessary*..." 

"But even he didn't *truly* understand," Treville says. "How could he?" 

"Indeed," Laurent says, and looks at Marie-Angelique. "We are... we are faced with a world which is divided sharply between Musketeers and *non*-Musketeers, my love, and we don't expect..." He shakes his head. "I'm blathering. What I'm saying — what I *should* have said *years* ago — is that you, like Amina, would have fit *perfectly* at the garrison —" 

"*Yes*," Treville says. "Yes, *that*." 

"You're one of *us*. You've always — you've always been —" And Laurent swallows and cups her face. "My love. My wife. My *sister*. How could I not want a child with the two people I love most in this world? With the two people who best understand me? Who best — best *fit* in my *world*?" 

And Marie-Angelique moans then, open and loud and sweet — 

Treville kisses her cheek hard, licks her, nips — 

Laurent kisses her mouth — 

Knocks her *back* — 

Grips Treville by the hair and *yanks* him into the kiss — 

Makes it wet, makes it hot, makes it *right* — 

And it's *just* as right that Treville's knot hasn't gone down one iota — they're not going anywhere tonight.


	2. Curiosity Does Fucking Horrible Things To Cats. Let's Look Into That Satisfaction Thing, Instead.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exactly who will relieve him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finished a later chapter ahead of schedule, so *y'all* get a chapter ahead of schedule. Enjoy!

Olivier's knees hurt. 

That isn't remotely the most important — 

That isn't — 

But. 

It's what he can focus on, right now, here in the hall outside Uncle Treville's bedroom. 

It's what he can think about — 

It's what he can. 

His knees hurt, because he's been kneeling on the hardwood — the rugs don't go all the way to the door, and he'd had to be as close as possible, he'd had to hear — 

("I — I want to make love with — my sons." 

"I want Laurent to make love with our sons. I want to *watch* him make love with our sons.")

His knees hurt because he's been *grinding* his knees in against the hardwood, because that was better than touching his — 

Better than. 

It was better than touching himself — 

("You're stroking Olivier's cock. He's watching Thomas *perform*. What happens next?")

He's — 

His *knees* hurt, and so he — stands up — 

And listens to his mother moan — 

Again — 

*Again* — 

And the sound should be — incorrect, or at least improper, for him to hear. It should be — 

He'd expected that *degree* of impropriety, because he was doing *this*, listening at — at *keyholes* — 

Listening *specifically* at the keyhole of his Uncle Treville —

("You may have guessed that I have a bit of a self-control problem when it comes to boys of a certain age...")

And. 

And he knows things now that he hadn't, before. 

He knows *many* things now that he hadn't — 

He feels a *sound* coming up the back of his throat — 

He can't — 

He swallows it down — 

He slips back into the shadows — 

His mother *laughs*, so open and sweet and carefree — 

("Yes — *fuck* — I — he starts gasping, making soft little sounds. Helpless sounds. I tell him that this is how I touch you, husband, that this — oh, God, oh, God — that this is how I get you *clean* —")

And Olivier can't keep himself from — from — 

He's gripping himself through his dressing gown like some — 

He's — 

In the *hall* — 

Uncle Treville *growls* — 

"Yes — yes, brother, have her *again*!" 

His father sounds so *eager* — 

Olivier feels flushed, overheated, *needy* — 

His skin is too *tight* — 

His mother wants to — 

And he doesn't know what his father wants, yet.

And he doesn't know what his *Uncle* wants, yet. 

And that — 

That makes him want to kneel back down, press his ear to the door again, *listen* — 

Stay and *listen* — 

Surely Uncle Treville will *make* Father say...?

Olivier moves closer to the door again — but. 

But. Father had *ordered* Uncle Treville around with such — such *snap*. He had called Uncle Treville his 'hungry hound', and, while part of that *has* to be just the fact that Uncle Treville is, in some very *real* ways, a dog... 

Olivier licks his lips. 

He's touching himself again. 

Uncle Treville is growling. 

Father is groaning. 

Mother — 

Mother is making low and — and *dirty* slurping sounds, *gulping* sounds, and Olivier is not ignorant. He's spent *time* with the other men at the garrison. He's — 

If Uncle Treville is 'having' her — again — then she's undoubtedly *sucking* Father. Taking. Taking his cock in her mouth — 

Does she want to take his?

This time, Olivier can't stop the noise from coming out. He — 

He flushes all *over* — 

He can't even *describe* the noise — 

But no one seems to have heard him. None of the other doors are opening — 

And Father is still groaning — 

Still — 

Uncle Treville is still *growling*, and Olivier finds he wants to be able to *see* what he's doing, what they're *all* doing —

He wants to be able to see how they're positioned, and how hard Uncle Treville is holding Mother, and if she likes — 

Olivier's cock *jerks* in his smallclothes — 

He can't — 

He can't — 

Will he ever be able to bathe *again* without imagining Mother walking in? Without imagining her taking a cloth and — 

But sometimes she'd rubbed the soap on her bare hands before working it into their skin. Sometimes — 

He's going to make another sound. 

He — 

He turns, military-quick and even, and *takes* himself to his own rooms, looking at nothing, seeing nothing, hearing — 

Uncle Treville howls. 

So — 

What is it *like* to be able to *control* a man like that? So *powerful* — no. No. He *walks*, and, once he's in his bedroom, he closes the door tightly — 

Oh. 

He hadn't looked in on Thomas tonight — 

("I want Thomas to *tell* Olivier how to bathe him —" 

"*Yes*. That's how it falls apart! He's too — he wouldn't let me direct Olivier to touch him — touch him that way —")

And Thomas wouldn't. Thomas would tell them both how he wished to be bathed, how hard to use the cloth — 

Or his bare hands... 

Olivier swallows and covers his face with his hands. 

He can't. 

He can't go to Thomas. Not tonight. 

He — 

He can't even — 

Right now, the entire left side of his body still burns, a little, where Thomas isn't pressed to it, where he's not squirming, moving, leaning in — 

(But how is she — how are you touching him, Maman?) 

Where he's not *pushing* for more room — 

(You have to let me *see*, Olivier —) 

Where he's not demanding — 

(Oh, but is that — if you touch Father that way — if you *please* him that way...) 

And what would he say after that? 

What — 

Would it be something to make this easier? 

Thomas always makes things easier, with his words, with his *conversation*. 

*Thomas* will undoubtedly have some way — some perfectly deft and quick and *wise* way — to approach the fact that their mother is apparently going to be *pregnant* again, after all this time, and that, this time, the child is going to be Uncle Treville's — 

And *magical* — 

And — 

A dog? 

They'd certainly seemed worried about something of that nature — or. No. They were worried that the babe would *shift*, and, certainly, if Olivier had six pounds of a living creature inside him, he would want it to do as few exciting things as possible. 

Certainly as few exciting things involving *claws* as possible. 

And he knows, now, what Father was thinking when he had all but *taunted* Uncle Treville into impregnating Mother, knows that both he and Uncle Treville think of her as being strong enough and *good* enough to be a Musketeer!

And that — 

That's something warm to go with all of tonight's heat. That's something to curl around, and smile for, and — 

*He's* always known his mother was powerful and correct and — 

And. 

This isn't correct. 

This isn't...

How long has she desired them?

How long have they *both* desired...

Uncle Treville had spoken about the matter as if he and *Father* had been speaking about it for quite some time. 

And — 

("All right, then. You might think you've taken a major step a moment ago, but you really didn't. You already wanted them. You already *knew* you wanted them. You were already *fantasizing* about them. You were already *placing* yourselves within those fantasies and — well... well. The only step you just took was the one where —" 

"We agreed to stop stewing in our own private Hells about it, brother?" 

"Perhaps more *marinating* in my case, husband, I — what are we *doing*?")

This isn't new. This — 

Part of why Uncle Treville is *here* this weekend — instead of home, with Aramis and Porthos, and they — 

He makes love with *them* — 

And Porthos and Aramis have no *shame* about it, no hesitation, no fear, no — 

But. 

Olivier isn't entirely *sure* what they should have, considering the fact that they also have nothing resembling the slightest compunction about letting people know that Uncle Treville had *bought* Aramis from a *brothel* catering to *men*. That... 

("Is there a reason I should care who knows about this, friend Olivier...?") 

And Aramis had had one arm resting on Porthos's broad shoulder — 

The waves of his hair hadn't shadowed the *sharpness* in his golden-brown eyes in the least — 

His smile had been an *invitation* — 

And the darkness *behind* Porthos's eyes had said all that needed to be said about how much pain was in store for *all* of them — emotional and otherwise — should that invitation not be accepted. 

Olivier had never been a fool.

He'd told Aramis that he suspected that *other* people might find the information that he had formerly sold himself to be the *sort* of information that determined Aramis's worth as a person and as a soldier, but that *he* was not that kind.

Aramis had smiled at Porthos — and perhaps at the black *clouds* only just clearing from behind his eyes — and then turned back to Olivier. 

("I am very glad to hear this thing. My beautiful Porthos, he has had nothing but the *best* things to say about his brothers de la Fère." 

"Oh — we both love him very much and respect him a great deal." 

"Yes? And where is Thomas?") 

And Porthos had finally — it had *felt* like a finally — laughed. ("In a bloody *book*."

"But — even on a day with visitors?") 

Olivier had smiled helplessly. ("Every day. All days. All the *time*" 

"Damned *right*,") Porthos had said. 

("Though, to be fair, he could be re-tuning his harpsichord for the eight hundred thousandth time." 

"Oh, yeah, yeah,") Porthos had said, and scratched at the beard-fuzz on his chin. ("I don't hear him *playing* it, so he *could* have decided that it's not perfect enough for him — or us."

"He truly — you know how much it means to him that you enjoy his playing, don't you, brother?") 

And Porthos had beamed. 

("He's brilliant at it. Of course I enjoy it.") 

And he'd turned to Aramis — 

("You'll like it, too, love. He really knows what he's doing — not like most of these overbred fops we have to put up with.") 

And Aramis had looked at *him* — 

And Olivier had smiled. 

("Oh, don't be concerned, Aramis. Porthos assured me long ago that Thomas and I had just *enough* breeding.") 

And *Aramis* had beamed, delighted and very much delighted with *him* — 

Olivier had *succeeded* at a conversation, even without Thomas to ease the way — 

And he'd thought to himself: Mother would be proud. 

And — 

And there's nothing incorrect about that statement. 

There's been no fundamental change in his relationship with his — 

But can he utter that sentence? 

Can he even *think* that sentence when he can't even remove his *dressing* gown? 

He — 

No. No. 

It's not like Mother is going to come in here and — and *ravish* him. 

For one thing, she's still *attached* to Uncle Treville. 

To — 

("*Knot* her.") 

Olivier blushes hard, *deep* — 

Olivier growls at himself and strips off the dressing gown, throwing himself onto his bed. He can't bring himself to crawl beneath the covers — 

But, like this, he's quite exposed. 

Anyone who came in could see that he'd been *leaking* in his breeches — 

That he's *hard* — 

For his *mother* — 

And. 

Shouldn't he consider this?

His mother is beautiful, and accomplished.

His mother is intelligent *and* wise.

His mother is. 

Her hair is long, and golden, and soft with curls, and she's never scrupled to pin it up when she's been alone with them. 

When it's been just — the three of them. 

Olivier licks his lips and — doesn't rest his hands on his belly. 

He knows where they'll go soon enough if he does. 

He — 

She doesn't pin her *hair* up, not all the time, and the scents of it are always so warm, so sweet and warm, and — 

Does she want them to touch it? 

Does Father touch it? Uncle Treville? 

Do they... crush it in their hands as they. 

Olivier swallows. 

It seems difficult to credit. 

It seems *impossible* to — 

She's always so — so well-put-*together*. 

She's never *mussed*, or — 

She never looks like she's been doing what she's doing, right now, in Uncle Treville's rooms. 

She never looks like she's been thinking about molesting Olivier in the bath, either. 

He — 

He wants to interrogate her for every time she's *looked* at him!

He wants to find out if *that* smile means that she's thinking about curling her warm, soft hand around his cock, or if it's that one, or *that* one. 

He wants to know if, when she kisses his cheeks, she's thinking of kissing his mouth — 

Or his throat — 

Or. 

Or his cock. 

And what *of* Father? 

He'd said it *first*. 

He'd *talked* about it with Uncle *Treville* first, and that must mean — or mustn't it? 

Mother had said that she'd been *watching* him look at him and Thomas with desire for — some frustratingly *vague* length of time, so that must mean that he had desired them *first*. 

Right?

Why hadn't Olivier *noticed*?

Why — but. 

Had Thomas noticed? Had he noticed and just not — 

And Olivier is already sitting up, already reaching for his dressing gown — 

He'll *ask* Thomas, make him *explain* — but. 

What if Thomas *hasn't* noticed? 

What if Thomas is as innocent of all of this as Olivier *had* been? 

What if *Olivier* somehow — 

Somehow — 

And Uncle Treville had said it, again and again — he's here, this weekend, in part to *relieve* their parents. To give them the — the *freedom* to discuss their fantasies about him and Thomas. That *must* mean that they *don't* plan to act on them, that they — 

That they *had* planned to keep this — all of it — a secret. 

That they'd never expected — 

Olivier growls at himself. Of course they didn't expect Olivier to listen at the keyhole like some — some shiftless *scullery* maid! They'd raised him better than that. They — they *are* better than that, and they always *have* been, and of course they'd try to protect him and Thomas from these desires, of course Uncle Treville would do anything to try to *help* them protect him and. 

And they'd all grown so aroused. 

They — 

It had been in their voices, the noises they'd made — 

The things they'd *said* — 

They'd all felt such obvious *want* at the thought of Olivier and Thomas in the bath with Mother, and that. 

Is it wrong that he wants *that*? 

Could it be? 

*They* want it! 

They want it badly enough to drag Uncle Treville *out* here, when — 

("Yeah, Daddy's been keeping close — and keeping *us* close, if you catch my meaning." 

"I... perhaps?") 

And Porthos and Aramis had shared a rueful look — 

And then *kissed*, right there on the divan, softly and openly and — sweetly. 

("My beautiful Porthos, he has many powers now — similar *to* our Daddy's." 

"Yes, I've seen —" 

"I can't control them all that well, yet, brother." 

"Oh. But... you *seem* to?" 

"Thank you! But if Aramis makes the wrong noise at the wrong time when we're making love, or says the wrong thing, or even gets into the wrong *position*...") 

And Aramis had stroked Porthos's curls. 

("My beautiful Porthos is a passionate young man. Those passions have *power* behind them.") 

Porthos had grunted and winced. 

("Yeah. Too *much* power, sometimes. Daddy helps me, you know, keep myself on the lead."

"You... train? Even as you make — I apologize. I don't mean to ask so many questions."

"You've hardly asked any, at all, friend Olivier." 

"Yeah, really, brother, it's all right. And — yeah, I guess it is a kind of training,") Porthos had said, and then winked. ("Doesn't feel like it, though.") 

It's clear that at least *one* of the reasons why Uncle Treville had brought Aramis and Porthos *with* him this weekend is to have them close just in case something went wrong with Porthos's powers, because Porthos and Aramis are *not* ready to be left entirely alone. 

Therefore, their parents *must* have rushed Uncle Treville, to at least a certain extent — 

Therefore — 

Therefore, their desires must be growing — have grown? — very powerful. 

Or — perhaps for just one of them? 

For Mother? 

She had sounded so — so *desperate* — 

So in *need* of — so in need. 

It *must* be egotistical to think of — of *himself* as the person who can provide what an adult woman needs. Especially a woman *married* to his *father*, who keeps a man like his Uncle Treville as a lover. 

It's — 

Olivier's cheeks are burning just thinking *around* it. But...

At the same time, he was raised to believe that it was a poor son — a *worthless* son — who didn't work to provide *everything* his mother needed. Especially a mother as fundamentally *superior* as Marie-Angelique Leandres de la Fère. 

If she desires — 

If she — 

If she *needs*...

Olivier —

This time, he can't hide from the fact that the sound which comes out of him is a moan. 

He isn't certain that he wants to. 

He — 

He's opening his breeches, shoving them down, gasping for the feel of his naked arse on the duvet — it's never seemed so *significant* before! 

Right now, Mother is naked down the hall. 

Right now, she's — 

She's naked and being held, touched — 

Her breasts — 

Olivier hasn't seen Mother's breasts since the last time he was playing with his troop deployments at Mother's feet while she fed Thomas. 

Thomas's hair was still as pale as Mother's, then. 

Mother had sung — 

And Thomas had, even then, tried to spend at least as much time *talking* to both of them as he'd spent *eating*. 

Mother had *held* him to her breast — 

Laughed — 

Giggled — 

Does Olivier want her to giggle if he touches her breast? 

If he strokes it, or — 

And the men always speak of there being *techniques* to this, and then they argue bitterly. 

This one says soft caresses only — 

This one says soft caresses — and then a firm *tweak* to the nipple. 

*That* one says just *ask*, and then gets shouted down, because what woman wants to constantly be *guiding* her men? 

*Mother* is accustomed to men who know precisely what they're *doing* with her — they'd made her *scream*!

Olivier wants. 

Olivier wants to make her scream, wants to please her, wants to — but. 

Mother had said she *wanted* to teach Olivier how to do at least *one* thing. Does that mean she likes teaching, in general?

Some of the ways she had spoken to Father and Uncle Treville had been quite... sharp. 

Demanding. 

*Forceful*. 

Olivier licks his lips. 

It's not that Mother has never been a force to be reckoned with — she's been their primary disciplinarian in the absence of Father for his duties to the regiment and the Crown. But. 

To think of it this way... 

To...

To consider it... 

She'd always been quite a gentle and kind teacher, but... she didn't have to be. 

She could be something else. 

She could teach Olivier to be something else. 

And then — 

Olivier bites his lip hard on a cry — he's squeezing his cock very hard — 

His feet are planted and he's *pumping* into his fist — 

He's — 

He's thinking of Thomas, and what it had been like to have *those* conversations just two years ago — 

("Olivier, something is desperately wrong with my cock and you have to *fix* it!") 

Those — 

Those *awkward* conversations, because Father had been on campaign, and neither of them could *imagine* talking to Mother about it — 

They could have.

They could have. 

And, for a moment, Olivier is frozen. *Stuck* between *fantasies* — 

Thomas asking for help more assiduously — 

(Oh, Olivier, stop — stop trying to explain and just *show* me! You know you're always better with your hands than with your *words*.) 

Or Mother... 

Or Mother. 

Mother gliding into Thomas's — no. 

They'd both be here, right here, and Thomas would be laid out on the center of Olivier's bed, as if he were ill — 

(Didn't your father explain this to you, Olivier?) 

Yes, Mother, but I — I — 

(You don't have the words to explain it to your brother...?) 

You know I never do, you know I'm never — 

(Shh, it's all right. I know a little about this...) 

And Thomas would be — 

(You *do*? But why? Is it because you've spent so much time with soldiers?) 

And Mother would laugh — 

Olivier is laughing — 

(Please try not to make me sound like a camp follower, darling —) 

(I'm sorry! I can't — it's only that I'm very *distracted*, Maman —) 

(Yes. By *this*...) 

And she would — 

She would rest her smooth, soft hand on Thomas's erection — 

The effect would be galvanizing, powerful, convulsive — 

(Maman!) 

(Shh, shh, it's all right. Just take this...) 

And Thomas would toss his head — 

He must toss his *head* — 

His own dark blond curls must — must — 

And he would bite his *lips* to try to help himself stay quiet — 

(That's good, Thomas, almost...) 

(*MM*!) 

(Is this how you do it, Olivier...?)

And her eyes — 

Her eyes would be so *sharp* on him — 

So knowing and — 

(Is this how you want me to do it to you?) 

And Olivier gasps — 

Arches — 

He can't see anything but her *face* as he strokes himself fast, so fast, so *fast* — 

He can't *stop* — 

He can't stop himself from filling in the sounds of Thomas crying out in *extremis* — 

And then he's shouting, losing himself, spend arcing high and spattering his chest — 

Oh, all over — 

He's making a *mess* — 

He can't *stop* — 

He can't — 

Mother is *smiling* at him — 

Laughing — 

Moaning so *loudly* — and so is he. 

Olivier collapses onto his back and pants and — pants. 

And shivers. 

He's just done something — so very incorrect. 

Incorrect by every *measure*. 

And the only thing he wants, right now, is more. 

Exactly who will relieve him?


	3. Conversation Among Catamites, or, Chatamites

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Our little Thomas thought our relationship with Daddy was more... hmm... pedagogical than romantic." 
> 
> "Yes! Yes, that!" 
> 
> "But —" 
> 
> "It was the logical explanation!" 
> 
> "Um." 
> 
> Olivier laughs into the cushions. "Porthos tries to keep his flights of logic to a minimum, Thomas." 
> 
> "That's *right*. Wait — no, that's right."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapters *may* slow down after this for health reasons -- check the stories tag on my [tumblr](http://teland.tumblr.com) for information if you don't see a chapter in a week.
> 
> And blame Jack and Houndstar for that terrible chapter title ahahahaa

Aramis was not known as a solver of problems at Tristan's. 

Aramis *was* a problem at Tristan's. 

And at the Church school in Épernay — 

And in his father's house — 

And — everywhere, basically. 

This, however, does not mean that he is *incapable* of solving problems. 

Such as: 

Today, it has been *abundantly* clear that Olivier is troubled. While it was equally clear yesterday that he is, in general, a young man of solemn countenance... 

Well. 

Today, his mood has been as black as the storms that pass over *Porthos's* countenance when someone has been rude to Aramis. 

More to the point — when someone has been rude to Aramis in a way which implies that Aramis will not be a good *soldier* someday. 

Aramis, for his part, has *told* his Porthos again and again that all he needs in the way of encouragement on this matter is *Porthos's* faith in him, and their *Daddy's* faith in him. The fact that he also has their Uncles' faith is an unasked-for buoy that solidifies everything *nicely*. 

Porthos, though... 

Porthos is as deeply concerned with Aramis's honour in the eyes of the other men as he is *not* concerned with his own — 

And, perhaps, there have been a few black storms behind Aramis's eyes at the garrison these past few weeks. 

No matter!

Aramis knows how to bring cheer. 

Especially since *Porthos's* efforts to bring cheer — letting Olivier spar and shoot with them to his heart's decided lack of content — did not do the trick. 

Nor have *Thomas's* efforts — performing comedic snatches of plays for them at lunch — worked, and *that* is another problem, because Thomas is very clearly a little wounded by this. 

Thomas had, perhaps, *chosen* those works for his brother?

Practiced them with his brother in mind...? 

He is a very talented boy, and very charming and kind, and very pretty, and very — 

And perhaps Aramis has looked at him very *closely* — while also looking at Porthos — just to see... 

But, no, his Porthos treats Thomas like a younger sibling he does *not* care to make love with, and this is well.

Aramis's possessiveness is already straining *enough* when it comes to the *ease* with which Porthos calls Olivier brother — 

And wraps a casual arm round his shoulders — 

And smiles into his eyes — 

And asks him what's *wrong* — 

But! Aramis will make things better. 

And Porthos will remember that *Aramis* is his love, and no one else, and — 

And perhaps Aramis is more possessive than he's ever put *deep* thought into before this point. 

Perhaps. 

Perhaps he should put some thought into it before he does anything — 

(Oi, love, what is it? You've got walls up.) 

Shit — 

(Don't put them up *higher*,) Porthos says, and moves into the corner Aramis was very successfully lurking in — 

Porthos — 

(Shh,) he says, and wraps his arms around Aramis from the back, and presses his mouth to Aramis's bruised throat — 

Every bruise is his. 

Every one. 

Daddy had ceded *possession* of Aramis's neck *to* Porthos, and that — 

That and so many other *things* — 

Aramis shivers and pushes into his touch. 

(Let me in.) 

I...

(You don't want to just yet, but you know it's always a good idea.) 

He doesn't want to admit that. 

At *all*. 

He doesn't — 

(Aramis...) 

And it's that — that *warmth*, that sweetness, that wide-eyed *feel*, that *reminder* that Porthos is both the better part of a year younger than he is and — 

Raised properly. 

Raised by people who loved him every day. 

Raised by people who taught him *how* to love —

Always and only how to love — 

(I love you. Please tell me what's wrong.) 

Fuck. Aramis pulls down his walls, shows every pathetic and small bit of — of *jealousy* — 

*Feels* Porthos examining them closely, looking for every hint of information he can find, everything that could possibly explain — 

Everything within *him* which could possibly explain —

You did nothing, beautiful Porthos! 

(But that's not true, or you wouldn't have been —) 

You loved your friends, your brothers. I. I am still learning everything that means. 

Aramis can feel Porthos frowning — 

It's too much — 

(Shh, don't try to comfort me. I believe you when you say it's not my fault, because I know that you know that it hurts me when you lie to me —)

*Yes* — 

(*Especially* about things like that —) 

Yes, *please* — 

(So I'm just going to say this: You're mine, and I'm yours, and that's always going to be the case. You're my brother and my love. You're — um. You're still the one I want to get pregnant.) 

Aramis coughs — 

Snickers — 

Porthos laughs against the back of his neck — 

And Aramis turns in his arms — 

Wraps *his* arms around Porthos's neck — 

And Porthos kisses him hard, sweet, *perfect* — 

Always so *perfect*!

(Just tell me, show me, *teach* me what you need, and I'll give it to you.) 

You, forever. 

Porthos growls into his mouth — 

"Oh!" 

And that — was Thomas — 

*Is* Thomas, and he is right there, close enough for an *attack*, and, usually, only their family comes this close when they are kissing — 

(So focus on the kissing!) 

But — 

(Give me another *minute*, at least!) 

*Porthos*!

Porthos grumbles inside him and pulls back — "Give us just a moment, Thomas!" 

Thomas raises an eyebrow. "Of course," he says, and hums like his mother. 

*That* bears thought — 

(In a *minute*,) Porthos says, and kisses him again — 

And again — 

And kisses him *deeply*, hungrily, so *hungrily* — 

Aramis will not be able to think about anything *else* — 

(*Good*.) 

And the part of Aramis which wants to scold, which wants to remind him that that they're not home, or even at the garrison — is being buried under a flood of need, of *feeling*, of — 

Of Porthos's powerful hands in his *hair* — 

Yanking and *pulling* — 

Porthos's teeth on his lip — 

Porthos's *flaring* eyes — 

I love you so much! 

(When I think about all the ways I might not've met you, it drives me *mad*.) Porthos says, and licks a stripe to Aramis's ear — 

*Bites* — 

Aramis tries to keep his noise to a *gasp* — 

"I'll never let you go," Porthos whispers, just like their Daddy, and — 

And Aramis can't hold back the moan.

Not at all. 

Not even with Thomas right *there*. 

Well. 

Porthos had *asked* him if he wanted to behave more subtly than their usual this weekend, and Aramis had said no, and this is what he *gets*. 

At least Porthos has left him still capable of standing — this time. 

(But are you *reassured*?) 

That is what you call *reassurance*?

(I —) 

No, do not answer that question, Aramis says, and turns to Thomas. "I apologize —" 

"But are you sorry?" And the boy raises his blond little eyebrow and *looks* at Aramis and — 

Well. 

Was that a dare? 

It *felt* like a dare. Aramis leans back against his strong and solid Porthos. "Not in the *least* —" 

"I didn't think you were. I — mm. I'd like to know so much more *about* the two of you!" 

*That* was simply sincere. "Yes? Like what? We will tell you everything." 

"You will? Like Papa? *He* answers every single question I ask him — honestly, openly, and in depth. Porthos will tell you!" 

"It's true, love. You gotta pick the questions you ask Uncle Laurent with *care*." 

"No! Ask him *everything*! It's *wonderful* the way he talks!" 

Porthos laughs softly. "Yeah, eh? You never got trapped into a lecture you didn't *quite* want?" 

Thomas opens his mouth — and shuts it. "Well..." 

Porthos *snickers*. "That's what I *thought*. Did you make the mistake of saying *anything* remotely implying interest in, say, military history or tactics?" 

Thomas winces and looks somewhat faint — 

And Porthos laughs even *harder* and reaches out to ruffle Thomas's hair. "Serves you *right*." 

"What? Why?!" 

"You'd probably made the poor man answer questions about *theater* and *music* for *hours* before then —" 

"Well..." 

"He was bloody pent up!" 

Thomas giggles like — a courtier, not a child. 

Fascinating. 

It stops Porthos, too — "You've been working on *that*."

"Oh — it's not natural, *yet*? Damn!" 

"No, it is. You've got it right and proper. But — did you really want to use it *now*?" And Porthos is making it very, very clear what *he* thinks about that — 

Thomas smiles ruefully. "I know you don't care for courtiers, Porthos, but I have to be ready for that sort of thing —" 

"Not *yet*, little brother. Just... relax a little bit for now, eh? That's what this weekend is *for*." 

"I want — I don't get the chance to see you very often, and I don't — I really do want to show you everything at once, and. I'm sorry, I'm really very scattered," he says, and looks down. He doesn't shuffle his feet, but that speaks more of breeding than desire, Aramis thinks. 

Porthos cups his shoulder. "Hey, it's all right. I um. I have a feeling we *will* be seeing more of each other... you know, in the coming months..." 

Because your mother is pregnant with our father's *baby*... 

(Don't think that too loud!) 

Why not? 

(Because then we'd have to explain why we know and how we know and — fuck, I hate *secrets* —) 

They are terrible, let us do away with them! 

"— think so? Why?" 

(Shit —) 

Oh, dear — 

But they can *focus* — 

And Porthos smiles ruefully. "Daddy's been talking about how he wants *all* of us to spend more time together. And with Olivier about to start all but living at the garrison, it's a good thing, I think." 

Thomas swallows and nods, and very clearly looks for *something* to take his attention — 

Something to hide his *upset* — 

And Aramis does not have to be a *lump*. "Thomas? You are not so pleased about your brother spending more time at the garrison?" 

Thomas smiles falsely. "It was always — meant to happen." 

Porthos winces. "That doesn't *quite* answer the question, little brother." 

Thomas clutches his hands together — 

Stops that and folds his hands together behind his back like his *father* — 

Stops *that* and folds his hands 'casually' in front of him — like a courtier. 

Porthos winces *harder* — 

And Thomas winces, too, and drops his hands to his sides. 

"Thomas —" 

"I'm — going to miss him. That's all," he says, and then peers around them — 

Olivier, himself, is joining them in the parlor from his post-lunch wash. 

He'd taken longer at it than expected — 

He's damp and flushed — 

And Thomas is frowning. "Olivier? What's wrong? Are you well? What's the matter?" 

They can all *hear* Olivier grinding his *teeth* — 

Thomas looks *horrified* — 

And Aramis clears his throat — quietly. "Perhaps... your head is paining you, Olivier? It is said that many young people — healthy young people like us — can suffer very debilitating headaches from time to time." 

Olivier *blinks* at Aramis — 

Stares almost *blankly* — 

"I... do feel somewhat pained," he says, softly, and sits on the couch furthest away from all of them. 

He has not learned very well how to lie. 

(He *is* pained, love —) 

But — 

(But not by that, no, I hear you.) 

Perhaps he found out about the child some other way and is upset...? 

(Nah. He's not quite as round the twist about the whole thing as Uncle Laurent, but he'd *love* to have our families blended. He *will* love it.) 

If you are certain. 

(I am,) Porthos says, squeezing the back of Aramis's neck and moving further into the room. "Can we get you anything, brother? Send for anything?" 

Olivier winces. "No. I — no. Perhaps I should — go back to my rooms —" 

"Oh — *no*, Olivier, please don't?" And Thomas has moved across the room at *speed*, kneeling beside Olivier on the couch and cupping Olivier's forearm with one hand and his shoulder with the other. "We'll be quiet, and we can just talk, and — we'll make you feel better." 

At that, Olivier *stares* at Thomas *hungrily* — 

Or does he? The look passes very quickly into something only glum, only dark and hurt — 

(No. Not a bit of it. He's not that sort.) 

If my Porthos is certain. 

They take the couch opposite Olivier's and Thomas's — 

Porthos *immediately* pulls Aramis in against him — 

Aramis laughs and smacks him — very lightly indeed, he would never want his Porthos to *stop* doing these things — and, once they're situated — 

Olivier sighs, and looks at all of them. 

"What *is* it, brother? Let us help, eh? We're good at that," Porthos says, with the easy confidence he absolutely deserves. 

(Love you.) 

And I you — 

Olivier licks his lips — "I... fear I'm not going to be the best company," he says, and then laughs with pain. "I apologize. I know that I've already *been* terrible company. I don't... I believe I need time —" 

"Brother, *please*," Thomas says, squeezing his arm and pushing in close. "This is your last weekend here for — no one even knows *how* long! You won't *be* here, with us... with me! Please stay. *Please*. You don't have to do anything. You don't have to *say* anything. Just stay. Just stay with me." 

This time, the look on Olivier's face almost seems *panicked* — 

And Thomas's expression is *hurt* — until Olivier shakes his head and touches him, strokes his cheek with his free hand — 

"It's — it's important to you —" 

"*Yes*!" 

"I'll stay," Olivier says, and licks his lips. "I'll — I apologize ahead of time for being — incorrect —" 

"It's all *right*," Thomas says, and turns to them. "Isn't it?" 

"Of course," Aramis says, and smiles at both of them —

"Yeah," Porthos says, and Aramis can feel — 

(Right, well, you're right, there's something off there.) 

Yes? 

(Yeah. Olivier doesn't... he doesn't look at Thomas that way.)

Mm. 

"*See*? You just relax, Olivier, and let me ask Porthos and Aramis egregiously personal questions —" 

"Oh — no —" 

"Shh, no, you're resting," Thomas says, patting Olivier and turning back to them. "Were you lovers immediately? Were your feelings for each other a strike from the blue?" 

"A strike from the. Uh." 

Thomas is actively *pushing* Olivier against the arm of the couch — 

Olivier has a curious expression of amused horror —

Aramis — sees the shape of how this can go. He grins. "Beautiful Porthos." 

"What — I — yeah?" 

"Did you not say that it was as if there was a light shining on me and only me?" 

"Oh. Well, yeah, actually. Right in the brothel," Porthos says, and relaxes. "And there were a lot of attractive blokes there —" 

"Oh, God," Olivier says — 

"Oh, yes?" And Thomas is managing to push his brother to the corner of the couch *while* leaning in. "Were they all like Aramis, lean and sylph-like?" 

Sylph —

Aramis takes a moment to consider being insulted — 

And another —

"Uh... hm." 

Porthos is *staring* at him — 

Aramis takes a moment to consider being insulted by *Porthos* — 

"It's just that you're so *strong*, love —"

"Am I *bulky*?" 

"*No* — but. I always imagined sylphs being more, you know, *wispy*. You've got muscle on you." 

"I —" 

"Oh, no, in many of the Classical depictions, sylphs and other sorts of spirits are quite athletic and fit —"

"Thomas —" 

"Shh, Olivier, you're *resting*," Thomas says, and *wedges* himself against him. "About the other men at the brothel? And do you often visit brothels? Does Uncle Treville?" 

Aramis decides not to be insulted. "Many of the employees at Tristan's were, like me, young men. I would say that most of *those* were... softer —" 

"Like me?" 

Olivier chokes — 

"I..." 

"Well, you know," Porthos says, "a lot of them did spend a good bit of time training up on musical instruments and the like." 

"*Really*. There's a lot of demand for that in... what is the proper term?" 

Aramis waves a hand. "*I* always called myself a whore —"

"And that's the term most people use," Porthos says, "but I really do think 'ladies and gentlemen of custom' suits them better." 

Aramis pretends to whisper: "Porthos's heart is very tender, indeed." 

"Oi —" 

"In *any* event," Aramis says, "there are always men — and women — who wish their... companions to *provide* companionship. To provide as much — or more! — companionship as sex!" 

"Oh, I want to take notes!" 

"Like you aren't already in that big brain of yours." 

This time, Thomas giggles like a boy, not a courtier — 

And Olivier drinks it in with a smile. 

Well, then. 

(Yeah, I say it looks like a plan to keep Thomas happy so that *Olivier* perks up.) 

Do you think something happened that would make Thomas unhappy? 

(It would maybe be enough that Olivier's leaving... or. No, I don't know why it would hit him so hard *now*.) 

Yes, I think it is something more *acute*, my Porthos. 

(Yeah, I think you're right. We'll keep an eye out.) 

As you — 

"And what about my other questions?" 

"Which, little brother?" 

"Do you go to brothels often? And —" 

"Wait, first off, that was my *first* trip to a brothel of *any* kind," Porthos says, "even though Uncles Kitos and Reynard offered to take me swiving *multiple* times —" 

"Oh, why didn't you go?" 

Porthos blushes and ducks his head — but only for a moment before he looks up again. "I was *deeply* shy. Uncle Reynard especially has been telling me tales of whoring basically all my *life* —" 

"Where is he and why doesn't he visit *here* more often? I have to ask *him* questions!" 

"Yes, you *do*. *Interrogate* his arse. *Anyway*, I was intimidated. I was *really* afraid of making a fool out of myself in front of him and Uncle Kitos, who, as far as I was concerned, knew *everything*. Plus..." 

"Yes? Yes?" 

"Heh. Two things," Porthos says, and waves his fingers. "One, they kept offering to take me out for a night with *women*, and I *really* wasn't sure I was ready for that —" 

"Are men — boys? — easier? Why?" 

"For me, yeah, and probably because I've spent my whole life *around* them. At least, that's what I *think*. I *really* need some women in my *life*." 

"No, you don't," Aramis says. 

"No, I don't," Porthos says, and nods judiciously. 

Thomas giggles so hard he loses his grip on Olivier for a long moment — 

Olivier doesn't move a muscle, despite having been contorted into a very awkward position. 

Thomas takes note of his advantage — 

Narrows his bright blue eyes — 

And climbs half atop his brother, perching and crossing his legs. "What was the other reason?" 

Olivier laughs softly and lets his brother perch at will —

Thomas pets him — 

And Porthos looks at Aramis and smiles happily before turning back to Thomas and Olivier. "I didn't really *want* some random person. I was in love — with my Daddy." 

"Oh. *Oh*. *Oh*! *Olivier*!" 

"I did mention —" 

"You didn't —" 

"I did —" 

"Not that — and he — and they — *oh*, I thought it was more of a *Greek* arrangement —" 

"A what now?"

"You *know*, for education and mentoring!" 

His beautiful Porthos is lost. 

Aramis is not. He leans in to kiss his Porthos's cheek. "Our little Thomas thought our relationship with Daddy was more... hmm... pedagogical than romantic." 

"Yes! Yes, that!" 

"But —" 

"It was the logical explanation!" 

"Um." 

Olivier laughs into the cushions. "Porthos tries to keep his flights of logic to a minimum, Thomas." 

"That's *right*. Wait — no, that's right." 

Thomas bursts out with *scandalized* giggles — 

He's blushing *hard* — 

He's *squirming* atop his brother — 

And Olivier frowns and knocks him off, catching him and laying him down gently. 

"Oh —" 

"Are you all right, brother? Do you need us to change the subject —" 

"Absolutely not! I have to know more about this right now!" 

"But —" 

"But *nothing*, Olivier! This is — this is — I don't know anything about *love* — romantic love — that doesn't come from books or our *parents*!"

Olivier flushes *dark* —

"Oh — Olivier? Are *you* all right? Am I being — too much? Do you need —" 

"I. I need you to be happy," Olivier says, and sounds like he's making a last *request* — 

"Oh — I'm always happy with you!" And Thomas rears up and kisses Olivier's cheeks, soft and warm and loving — 

Olivier shudders — 

"Olivier? *Are* you ill?" 

"I'm just — a little light-headed," he lies, and moves back to his corner of the couch — 

Thomas sits up immediately and checks him for fever — "You're very warm —" 

"I'm — I'll go to bed earlier tonight —" 

"Please do! And are you sure you should travel —" 

"*Yes*," Olivier *grits* — 

And Thomas rears back, hurt and — hurt. 

And worried, as well. 

Aramis looks to Porthos — 

But Porthos is *studying* Olivier. 

Do you feel...? 

(Probably not more than you can *see* — fuck, love, he wants to eat Thomas *alive*.) 

This is my assessment — 

(I don't know how I *missed* that yesterday —) 

I do not think — 

(It was *there*? *Really*?) 

If it was, my Porthos, it was buried. You saw how easy he was when we spoke about Thomas, how open and free. Now... 

(Yeah. Well... shit. What the sodding hell *happened*?) 

I wonder... 

(What?) 

Daddy did not want us paying attention to his lovemaking with your Uncle Laurent and Aunt Marie-Angelique — 

(Your Aunt and Uncle, *too*, now — and. You think there was something there? Something *other* than the *pregnancy*? Like *what*?) 

I do not know, my beautiful Porthos. But... perhaps Olivier knows more than *we* do.

(And it made him — this? That doesn't make —) 

Sense. No, it does not. But... I do not think any of us are working with the whole — 

"Shall I. Shall I call for drinks? Light refreshments?" 

— picture. 

Thomas's expression — his whole countenance — is brittle. 

He is — Aramis cannot help but think this — much too far away from his brother. 

The space between them almost seems *charged* — 

"Or — or I could play —" 

"*Or*," Porthos says, and pulls on an easy smile, "you could ask us more egregiously personal questions." 

That gets a spark of excitement — 

Of real *need* — 

And then Thomas looks to Olivier, who is glaring at the arm of the couch as if he means to find the thing's internal organs and remove them piece by piece. 

Thomas's face falls again. It — 

No. 

Aramis leans forward. "Perhaps if you tell us what you'd like to *know* about romantic love...?"

"Or..." And Porthos leans forward, too. "Look, we already *know* Uncle Laurent gave you excruciating and terrifying detail, and probably your brother did, too, but this is an *excellent* time to get some questions out about sex —" 

"*Oh*." 

"Yeah?" 

Thomas licks his lips — 

Looks very much like he's wondering if he's being *disloyal* by getting excited for this — 

Porthos *glares* at Olivier — 

And Olivier turns and smiles ruefully at Thomas. "You absolutely *should* ask, Thomas. There is no doubt in my mind that Porthos and Aramis will think of things I never would." 

Thomas gazes at Olivier with *unshakable* devotion — 

And Aramis wonders if anyone else can see the tight, tight fist Olivier hides at his side. 

(Oh, I see it, all right. *Fuck*.) 

Indeed. 

"Thank you, Olivier," Thomas says *solemnly* — 

Olivier swallows and *nods* — 

And Thomas turns back to them — "How do you make love?" 

"Uh. You mean. Us personally?" 

"Yes."

Aramis licks his lips — 

"And — is it the most romantic way? Do you feel the physical acts ennoble the feelings you have for one another?" 

"Uhh..." 

"And how do you make love with your father? Does the incestuousness add to or take away from the desire you feel for him? Are you, Porthos, in love with him as a man first or as your father first? Did you always desire him?" 

"I —" 

"And Aramis, you also consider Uncle Treville to be your father —" 

"I truly do," Aramis says and cuddles back against his beautiful Porthos, who most definitely needs the support — 

"Did this happen before or after your desire for him came to the fore? Before or after your *romantic* feelings came to the fore? Does desire happen before romance? The other way around? What should I expect?" 

"Right, let's tackle that one first," Porthos says, and breathes a sigh of relief — 

Olivier *pins* them both with a *meanly* amused look — "Are you *quite* sure about that...?" 

"I will drop-kick your mop-topped arse into the *orchard* —"

"No, you *won't*," Thomas says, and puts a protective arm up in front of his brother. "I'd be very unhappy if I had to poison your food." 

Aramis *coughs* — 

Porthos splutters — 

"But you were saying?" And Thomas leans forward eagerly even as he edges just a little closer to Olivier — 

Olivier wraps an arm round Thomas's shoulders and pulls him back *in* — 

And Thomas *beams* up at him, hugging him tightly — 

Olivier smiles and looks down and away. 

"*Right*," Porthos says, and leans in to pretend to whisper in Aramis's ear — "Hire a taster for us, love." 

Aramis pulls on Porthos's impression of judiciousness and nods — 

"Oh, please please answer!" 

Porthos beams. "'course. So you've been to the parties. The big, grand ones, where you get presented to all the girls your age or about your age, and all the boys, too, yeah?" 

Thomas nods. 

"And you're working — you're on your best behaviour — because this is the life you're going to lead, this is where you're going to be doing a lot of your power-brokering and favour-dishing and what-not." 

"Yes!" 

"So you're *not* looking for romance." 

"Of course not!" 

"*But*." 

Thomas blinks. "But?" 

"*But*. Maybe, just maybe, there were people you noticed more than the other people?" 

"I —" 

"Wait. You're not like the other blokes, and you never have been, so I'm not going to *do* this like I would for just any lad coming up. All right?" 

Thomas nods eagerly. 

"So. All right. Maybe there was a girl who was just — *obviously* smarter than the script she had to follow was letting her be." 

"Oh —" 

"Or maybe there was a *boy* who was that smart, *and* really mannered." 

"Oh, I —" 

"And maybe that girl who was really smart — she was really *witty*, too, and she got off a good line when no one was paying attention to make sure she was *perfectly* well-behaved. Is that sounding familiar?" 

"Yes! That's what I was looking for!" 

"Yeah, eh? Good job, 'cause that's what *you* need, more than anything else. That's what's going to build romance *and* lust in *you*, I'd wager —" 

"What builds it in you?" 

"Well, I —" 

"And you, Aramis?" 

"While Porthos is thinking of a way to say something beautiful and romantic, I will give you my *very* easy answer: Good men. *Hard* men. *Strong* men. *Brave* men. *True* men. Good *soldiers*. *Always*." 

"Oh! But don't you like women, at all?" 

"Of course! But that is *also* an easy answer." 

"*How*?" 

"Yeah, love, *how*?" 

Aramis turns and pats his beautiful Porthos's cheek. "One day, perhaps on your next birthday, we will allow you out to some of the other brothels of my acquaintance —" 

"Tell me —" 

"Shh, Thomas, one moment," Aramis says, and smiles at him — 

Thomas beams back — 

"As I was saying, beautiful Porthos. We will take you to a place of *many* women, good women, smart women, beautiful women, moderately-violent women —" 

"Er —" 

"Or maybe extremely-violent women, we will discuss this —" 

"Right, love, what —" 

"But not at this time." 

Porthos stares at him. 

Aramis smiles at him. Blandly. 

Porthos licks his lips. And then turns to Thomas. "Right, so, I'm really desperately fond of *terrifying* people. *Like* Aramis and Daddy. I mean, you've seen them both in action now. Though I have to say that I'm surprised you threatened to poison us before Aramis threatened to disembowel you —" 

"Um?" 

"*Porthos*! I would *never* —" 

Porthos looks at him. 

"Our little brother has done *nothing* wrong!" 

"That he hasn't." 

"He is kind! And sweet! And giving! And his intellect and love of further learning mark him as being a *superior* human." 

"That they do." 

"And he has *only* threatened your life indirectly —" 

"Mm-hm." 

"And so I will only say, indirectly, that if he ever hurt you, in any way, he would *feel* it for the rest of his very few days." 

Olivier sits up and *looks* at Aramis — very tellingly. 

Porthos reaches over and *pushes* Aramis back against the couch — "But none of that has to be anything but idle chit-chat that doesn't bloody *go* anywhere, because we're bloody *brothers* who bloody don't *hurt* each other," he says, and looks at all of them. 

Aramis bows his head. 

Thomas licks his lips and nods — 

And, when Aramis looks up, Porthos and Olivier are only staring at each other. If Aramis didn't know better, he would think *they* were communicating mentally, but... 

This is a different kind of silent communication. 

This is what comes of two young men of some degree of wealth and comfort — and always, always love — who were raised together as brothers in everything *but* blood, raised knowing that they would one day hold each other's *lives* in their hands — 

Aramis has been so *jealous* of Olivier — 

So jealous of what he has — and what he *can* have if he reaches out and *takes* — 

(He never would, love.) 

No — 

(And I'd never leave you, never put you *aside* —) 

Porthos, I — 

(Not for *anything*. Do you hear me?) 

Aramis breathes. 

Outwardly, Porthos is still staring *into* Olivier. Inwardly... he is all but *gripping* Aramis's *spirit*. 

I am yours, beautiful Porthos. And, most of the time, I am fully convinced that you are mine.

(Can we do better than that?) 

Yes. And we will, as soon as we convince Olivier to reach out and take his *brother*, like he so wishes to do — 

Porthos blinks and turns to *look* at Aramis — 

Aramis pulls on a bland expression again — 

And Olivier... clears his throat. 

They all pause — 

And Olivier smiles ruefully. "I apologize," he says, softly and quietly. "I truly am... not myself, this weekend —" 

"I wonder about that, brother," Porthos says, pointedly but just as quietly. 

Olivier inhales sharply — 

Thomas holds him tightly and gives Porthos a *wounded* look —

"Beautiful Porthos..."

"I'm not attacking. I *wouldn't*. I *know how this goes*. But you were right the first time, love," Porthos says, looks at Aramis briefly before turning back to the others. "We've got too many secrets in this room. I think we need to get rid of at least a few. All right?" 

Olivier — blanches. And swallows. And says absolutely *nothing*. 

"Olivier... no one's going to *judge* you for your secrets —" 

"I — beg to differ. Excuse me," he says, standing up and walking out. 

"Oh — shit," Porthos says, wincing and standing, as well. 

They all do. 

"I don't understand what just happened," Thomas says, in a small voice. He seems not to know what to do with his hands again. 

He — 

"We do, we think," Aramis says, and crosses the room to cup Thomas's shoulder. He's an average height for his age, which makes him significantly shorter than Aramis — and positively diminutive next to Porthos. 

Right now, he looks very small, indeed, and very sad. 

"Yeah, I — little brother, Olivier's got something in his head right now..." Porthos licks his lips and stares after him — 

"Go, beautiful Porthos. I will talk to Thomas." 

And there is a moment when Aramis thinks Porthos will pause, or demur, or simply *instruct* Aramis in how to treat the little brother of his heart — 

But he doesn't. 

(I trust you, love. With all of myself.) 

Aramis shivers. Porthos... 

(And I love you, too,) he says, as he jogs out the same door Olivier had taken. 

"Porthos has always understood Olivier better," Thomas says, less whining than offering a fact for them to share. 

Aramis leads them back to the couch and sits them down. "It is not so uncommon for brothers to find more common ground with friends than with their own blood." 

Thomas looks down. "I used to be very cruel. To Olivier, I mean." 

Aramis frowns. "How so?" 

"I can be... quick. Witty. Papa has always said I took after Maman that way — Maman always said so, too. But when we were younger, before Uncle Kitos convinced Papa to let *me* be the courtier and *Olivier* be the soldier, I would use it to... insult him. To hurt him. Even though I always knew he'd never use his fists to hurt *me*." 

Aramis winces. "Yes, this is hard. But have you never apologized for this?" 

"I *have* —" 

"Have you never — ah, but it's hard to *feel* as though you've made amends." 

"I'll never forget the way his eyes would... darken. When I made him feel stupid, or slow, or... unworthy." 

"Oh, Thomas..." Aramis wraps an arm around him and squeezes. Beautiful Porthos...

(*Believe* me when I say Olivier's going to get an earful.) 

I thank you!

"I just want to make him *happy*, and I know how to do it now, I know — a *lot* of ways to do it, and he *lets* me, most of the time —" 

"Does he make *you* happy?" 

"Of course he does! He listens to me, even when I babble, and he answers all my questions — when he can — and he always lets me *touch*, and sometimes he remembers to touch me *first* so I don't *always* have to climb him —" 

"But you like this very much, I think..." 

Thomas blushes. "I won't be able to do it much longer. We'll be *courting* and there will constantly be parties and — and I'll have to be *correct*. Olivier will be, too, but he can be correct in the ways which most make sense to *him*." 

"You are, perhaps, not ready to put up the things of childhood?" 

"I'm not a *child*, Aramis. I think — it's terribly *illogical* that we have to stop *touching* each other in order to be named adults. I mean — don't you think? You *must* think so. You and Porthos never *stop* touching." 

"For this I am *very* grateful. But my beautiful Porthos, he has dug his *hooves* into the packed earth, and lowered his horns, and *dared* the world to say he cannot have *his* way *all* the time." 

"Oh!" And Thomas giggles. "I can see that *very* clearly." 

"Yes, mm?"

"*That's* what you like. His power, his tenacity, his dominance —" 

"Ah, but he is also *very* sweet, and very kind, and his heart and hand are open to all who show *him* sweetness and kindness. He is also wise *far* beyond his years, and he is..." Aramis laughs softly. "We had been speaking for only a few minutes after he first introduced himself when our Daddy began walking toward the table we were sharing by the fire. My heart began to hammer in my *chest* at the prospect of *losing* him so quickly!" 

"So your love for him was *also* like a strike from the blue!" 

"Or, perhaps, the bull simply charged and tossed me *headlong* into the air while I was too busy studying my Bible to pay attention." 

"Oh! You're a scholar, as well?" 

"I am. Though... perhaps not so much as you. I have a narrower focus." 

"Religious studies?" 

Aramis inclines his head.

"I —" 

Aramis touches two fingers to Thomas's mouth. "I promise I will discuss this with you in *depth* at almost *any* time you wish... but, for now, I believe there are other things which *must* be discussed. Mm?" And he moves his fingers. 

"What *secrets*?" 

"You know of Porthos's and my Daddy's powers?" 

"Yes! Father explained — well, he explained about Uncle Treville's in depth when we asked, and had proven that we were mature enough to keep secrets. He said Porthos's were *much* the same, but that implies that there are some differences? What are they?" 

"My beautiful Porthos... senses things. He has a very difficult time *explaining* this, and he has tried many times for me, but the clearest description he was able to give me was that, simply put, his instincts were far, far better than most. He has no superhuman ability to *trust* those instincts, and so it sometimes still takes him time to see what is nominally right in front of his *face*, but when he *does* trust his instincts, they have never once led him astray. 

"So, when he saw me, he saw... a light, I suppose. Something which said that *I* was the boy he should choose out of all the others — and there were certainly prettier boys there!" 

"I find that difficult to *believe*, Aramis. You're extremely attractive!" 

"I thank you, Thomas, and I find you just the same! I think you would've made *much* money at Tristan's — and stolen my Hercule right from under me!" 

"Oh, who is *Hercule*?" 

"He was one of our guards — the best of them! He used to be in the Army, and, as a guard, he was allowed certain considerations from the whores, within reason. *I* allowed him *all* he wished. He is very beautiful. Great and grizzled and scarred, with a belly-laugh to shake the rafters," Aramis says, and sighs. "Such a shame he does not truly know how to touch a boy like me. But where was I?"

"Giving me countless more questions!" 

Aramis lets himself laugh just a little *throatily*... 

"Oh! That's a *wonderful* laugh. Let me try it," Thomas says, and does just that — 

"No, no, more from here," Aramis says, and taps Thomas's throat — 

Thomas *purrs* — 

"Oh, very *nice*! But try again."

Thomas does — 

And again — 

"Yes, there. Use this laugh when you are happy and amused with your *prey*."

"Yes?" 

"*Yes*. You will have them crawling at your feet, nosing to kiss the bows on your slippers." 

"Perfect! Sometimes Maman uses a laugh a *little* like that, but hers is more —" And Thomas demonstrates — 

"Ah, yes, the *matronly* purr. It is *very* good, as you have no doubt seen, for making all assured of who is the *true* beauty in the room, even though she is married and older, yes?" 

"Yes! The other women hiss like *cats* when Maman glides into a room, sometimes." 

"Ah, always I have dreamed of causing this reaction." 

"Yes?" 

"*Mostly* I have dreamed of causing other reactions, and of hurting my enemies far more bluntly, but... that reaction, too," Aramis says, and winks. 

"You're *nothing* like the other soldiers Father brings home!" 

"I know," Aramis says, and smiles ruefully. "This worries my Daddy sometimes. He fears that I will not be accepted by the other men, and that I will thus not live happily. He does not understand that I have *already* been accepted by *precisely* who I *wish* to be accepted by, and that *everyone* else can go hang. My Daddy, he does not think of himself as a politician, or as a man who needs the love of many, but he truly *is*." 

Thomas nods thoughtfully. "He *presents* himself as irascible and solitary, but he's always been *very* expansive and welcoming. Of — even *me*!" 

"Of course you! You are his little nephew!" 

"No, of course he loves me in that *familial* way, but I've *seen* him trying to find ways to — to *create* common ground with me, even when I'm being *exceedingly* effeminate and intellectual *and* strange." 

"And it *is* true that you can be all of those things at once." 

"Yes!" 

"But part of being a family, I have been told — very recently — *is* working to create those spaces, those *pieces* of common ground, however small and precarious." 

"Oh, but Uncle Treville works so *hard*. He's so..." Thomas licks his lips. "He and Papa *and* Olivier..." 

And this... "You do not like making them work so hard." 

"Who would?" Thomas smiles ruefully. "I've thought, more than once, that it would be... wonderful to wake up one day *like* Olivier. To be... strong, and fast, and — and *good* at things like guns and swords and knives. To not *flinch* at the sound of cannonfire. To not — not *rage* at *everything* when Papa comes home *wounded*." 

"Oh, Thomas —" 

"No, don't — don't respond — *mm* —" 

"But I must. I *must*," Aramis says, and presses his fingers to Thomas's soft lips again. "Your love for your family *commends* you, as they are good people, and all *worth* loving. Your *devotion* to your family commends you, as they are all people *worth* devotion. But I was raised in the Church, and, much to my eventual distaste, *educated* in the Church, and I have learned much of the truth of devotion — often despite the Church's best efforts to the contrary." 

Thomas's eyes are wide and full and *focused*. 

Aramis nods once. "When we devote ourselves to our loves, we must give of our best to them always, no?" 

Thomas nods once, fervently. 

"And we must never lie to them?" 

Another fervent nod. 

"And we must never steal from them?" 

Another. 

"And we must always, always, *always* give to them precisely what they need and desire?" 

Another. 

"So, the answer to the question you have posed — and it was a question, and a cry in the wilderness of the spirit — is a simple one, little brother: You are devoted to your family, and you have only one person to give them, and that is yourself. Therefore, you must give the best of yourself to them. To give them someone else — even to try — would be a *lie*. Do you see?" 

Thomas shudders, but nods. 

Aramis nods back. "Further, if you mean to practice your devotions to your loved ones, you must always stay *present* to do so. If you do not do this thing, you cannot give of your best to them, and you have thus stolen from them. Do you see?" 

Thomas *grunts* — and nods. 

Aramis nods back. "Finally, your loved ones, your family, they have reached for you with open arms, have they not? They have called for *you* — *Thomas* — and not this strange boy who *looks* a little like you, but who strides out into the world with martial fervor, leaving their wife and mother and lover alone. They want you. They need you. *You*, and not this *spectre*. This — this *creature* of no spirit. What must you do?" And Aramis moves his fingers. 

Thomas takes a shuddering breath — 

And another — 

And *another* — 

And then he moans and says. "I have to — I have to *give* myself to them, I have to, and I try, but I'll try harder, and I'll do it right this time, and Olivier won't be so —" 

"Ah, Olivier, *this* we must discuss." 

"Wh-what?" 

(You know, love, I'm not sure if I want all your lessons to be in the Bible or *not* when we finally sit down and read it together.) 

Of course my lessons are in the Bible! You simply must read it carefully. 

(Right, right. I've got Olivier cornered in his bedroom — give me a bit.) 

As you say. 

And when Aramis focuses on Thomas *this* time — Thomas is very, very focused on him. 

"Is that one of the things you wanted to talk to us about? The... mental communication you and Porthos have been engaging in?" 

Aramis smiles wryly. "We've been trying to be more subtle about this, but — yes. There are things we know, because we are *connected* to our Daddy — and to our *Uncles* — that we believe you and Olivier should know." 

"Like what?" 

"Well..." Aramis smiles ruefully. "Now that it comes to it, I hesitate to tell. I'm not sure of my *place*." 

Thomas frowns. "If you *know*, then it *must* be your place to tell." 

"Not so, not for something like this, I think... fuck. No, I will tell, because Porthos and I are *concerned* that it *might* have something to do — however tangentially — with Olivier's black mood today: Your mother is pregnant again." 

"What — *what*? But — how do you —" 

"She is pregnant with our *Daddy's* child." 

Thomas rears back — 

"We felt this happen — or, rather, we felt the moment when the pregnancy became *assured*, with your mother's and father's blessings, of course — last night, and so did our Uncles." 

And Thomas's expression turns impressively *calculating*. "Did Uncle *Treville* assure it? With his powers?" 

"He cannot do this thing. He can only know when, precisely, a woman is fertile and ripe. He knew your mother was at least *close* to her ripest time, and, apparently, he warned your parents of this when they were... negotiating the acts they would perform together last night. It... he will be the child's godfather, as he is yours and Olivier's," Aramis says, drawing back and sitting on his heels. 

Thomas nods thoughtfully. "I need to speak to Maman about this." 

"Of course." 

"I — it's not why Olivier is upset." 

"You're certain?" 

"Oh, yes," Thomas says. "He's like Father — he's always wanted our two families to be as close as *possible*, and this — if he knew about this beforehand, somehow, and I'm not at all certain how — he would just be happier. *Proud*. It's Maman I'm concerned about, because she's always been more... unsure. About her place with Uncle Treville and Father." And Thomas smiles ruefully at Aramis. "Like me." 

Aramis bites his lip and nods. 

"You — you didn't have to stop touching — I mean. If you wanted to stop touching —" 

Aramis squeezes Thomas close. "I never got enough of touching people I *liked* when I was growing up, and of course not while I was at Tristan's," he says, and kisses Thomas's cheek. "Thank you for this." 

Thomas smiles, small and sweet. "Maman holds me all the time. Papa seems to think I'm *breakable*. And... Olivier..." 

"Olivier wants to touch you all the *time*." 

"No — no —" 

"*Yes*. Porthos and I, we watched this. We *saw* this. He has built a fire in his heart for you. He wants to warm you with it." 

"What — what does that mean?" 

"Thomas... have you ever wanted to make love with your brother?" 

"With — with *Olivier*?" And Thomas *turns* in his arms, but doesn't draw back. "Are you — but. Olivier doesn't — he *doesn't*." 

And that... "That was not a 'no', Thomas." 

"I —" 

"More to the point, that was not a 'where did that question *come* from'." 

The flush stains Thomas's milk-pale skin like wine. 

Aramis squeezes Thomas firmly. "All is well, I promise you this. I only mean — you have, perhaps, noticed certain of the undercurrents in your home?" 

"I... don't think I should talk about that." 

"No? Why not?" 

"Because." Thomas swallows. "Because they don't have anything to *do* with Olivier." 

Aramis blinks — 

(Oh shit.) 

Porthos? 

(Oh — shit.) 

Porthos, what — 

(I uh. Just found out what Olivier knows that we don't.) 

What *is* — 

(It's Uncle Laurent and Aunt Marie-Angelique, Aramis. They — that's why Daddy was making us butt out so *hard* last night. They invited Daddy out here to help them — I don't know what to call it, deal with their *fantasies* —) 

About — their sons. 

(*Yes*.) 

Oh. Hm. 

(I —) 

And Olivier overheard? 

(He did. He *really* did, along with all the other —) 

Thomas already knew. 

(Uh. What?) 

I must go back to him. You go back to Olivier. 

(Right, I will — do that.) 

And Aramis focuses on Thomas again — 

"Were you... telling Porthos?" 

"We were telling each other," Aramis says, and strokes Thomas's cheek. "Olivier overheard your parents with our Daddy last night —" 

"Oh — *oh* — he knows?" 

Aramis nods. "You were protecting him?" 

"He doesn't... he doesn't *think* that way —" 

"Do you?" 

Thomas flushes more deeply — but he doesn't squirm in the least before he says, "Yes." 

Aramis nods. "Good, because it is *abundantly* clear that Olivier thinks this way *now*." 

For a moment, there's a flash of *intense* hope in Thomas's eyes — he crushes it. "No —" 

"*Yes*. We have seen this! My Porthos, he is undoubtedly *smelling* it as we speak —" 

Thomas *grunts* —

"Ah, yes? You have dreamed of smelling your brother's sweat? Of tasting it?" 

"Don't — don't do —" 

"You understand enough about lust to know when and how to — try to — hide from it..." 

"I — I'm not a *child*." 

"No, you are not. And you understand *devotion* —" 

"I don't want to make my brother do — do anything he doesn't *want* to!" 

"Like please you? And make you happy?" 

Thomas moans — 

"You know he wants these things —" 

"I — I do —" 

"You know he *needs* these things." 

"He can make me happy without — he's obviously *uncomfortable*, and unhappy, and —" 

"Perhaps, little brother, he wishes to protect *you*." 

Thomas blinks. 

Aramis raises an eyebrow. 

"But — why would he think that I didn't *know*?" 

Aramis spreads his hands. "These revelations, they are inherently shocking to most people —" 

"Oh — true," Thomas says, and frowns in thought. "He... could think me that *innocent*." 

"Oh, yes." 

"That — young. Or... pure?" 

"These things are both possible —" 

(He definitely wants to protect Thomas.) 

Tell him he doesn't have to. 

(Really?)

Oh, yes. 

(Like — at all?) 

Mm-hm. 

(Too *right*.) 

Aramis grins as he focuses — "Olivier definitely wants to protect you." 

"From — from himself?" 

"Oh, yes." 

"But — no!" 

"I have told Porthos to tell him —" 

"*I'll* tell him —" 

Aramis presses his fingertips to Thomas's chest. "Give Porthos this chance to... ease the way for you." 

Thomas inhales sharply. "Is that. Is that what he's doing? No, of course that's what — that's what he's *always* done for me, for me and Olivier. *Oh*." 

"My beautiful Porthos has made things easier for you before?" 

"*Yes*. He — he's always been so *good* at figuring out what I *mean* and translating it to *Olivier's* language." 

Aramis grins. "I promise to make him even *better*." 

Thomas grins back — but then looks troubled again. "But..." 

"What? What is it?" 

"How — how can you be *certain* about Olivier? About what he *wants*?" 

"We have *seen* —" 

"But *what* did you see? He was... so troubled, and so *strained* —" 

"There was hunger in his eyes when he looked at you more than once, and his strain... well," Aramis says, and mimes scales with his hands. "This is more ambiguous, to be sure —" 

"*Yes* —" 

"*But*, when that strain comes again and again when you are touching him, or kissing him, or begging him to stay with you, or promising to make him feel *better*..." And Aramis raises an eyebrow. 

And Thomas pants — 

And Thomas balls his *mostly*-soft hands into *fists* — 

"I — want to go to him right now." 

"Give Porthos a little more time." 

Thomas swallows — and nods. "I — I do understand. I've had time to grow accustomed to my — my feelings —" 

"Yes —" 

"I've had them all *along*!" 

"Oh, yes?" 

"Olivier was the one who *explained* sex to me, Aramis!" 

In truth, this sounds much like the blind leading the *mad* to him, but these things must happen in every house. "Tell me about this thing." 

"Oh — it was so *clear* that Papa had taught him, and that Olivier was trying to be just as detailed, just as clear, just as *direct*." 

"Oh, yes? This is *good*!" 

"*Yes*. And — oh, I just — I couldn't help imagining Papa's strong hands on him, Papa teaching him *that* way —" 

Aramis *coughs* — 

"Aramis?" 

"No, no, go on!" 

"Are you certain?" 

Aramis pushes *closer* — "Oh, *yes*." 

"It's just — I wanted to know what it was like for *Porthos*, with Uncle Treville, because... because I had all these thoughts and images and dreams, and they were so confused —" 

"Were they?" 

"*Yes*. Because there were my questions about how things worked, and why things worked the way they did, and what would happen if I did something this way instead of that way, and I mostly didn't want those questions to be answered in sexual ways..." 

"All right..." 

"But then Olivier would start *talking*, and I'd be able to hear *Papa* in his voice, and I'd be able to hear all the ways Olivier wished he could give me *more* of Papa, and then I would be just — *lost*." 

"In fantasies?" 

"In — detailed *scenarios*. *This* is how Olivier was sitting when Papa was explaining this concept to him, and these are how his clothes were arranged —" 

"How his breeches were folded back, perhaps?" 

"Oh, yes, yes!" 

Aramis grins. "And... how your father's strong hands were shaping forms in the air until Olivier licked his lips and asked for a direct demonstration?" 

"Yes, that precisely! And Papa would have had Olivier stand, and come sit on his lap —" 

"*Oh* — that is very nice —" 

"Is it? I was only thinking of the positioning..." 

Aramis grins. "You'll see." 

Thomas shivers and moans. "I want — I want —" 

"Tell me more." 

"Papa would — hold Olivier's hand, and — wrap it around Olivier's hard cock —" 

"Oh — mm. And force him to stroke?" 

"He would ask so many questions! Does this feel good, does this feel better, how about this, and — Olivier would answer as best as he *could*, but..." 

"He would... lose himself...?" 

Thomas licks his lips. "Very quickly. Just like me. Just — I only had the chance to touch myself in *front* of Olivier once —" 

"But you *did*." 

"Yes — he turned away." 

"Oh, no!" 

Thomas smiles ruefully. "You see why — why I have *doubts*!" 

"Tell me what he did while you were stroking yourself, little brother. Tell me how he *was*." 

"He — he was very tense..." 

"Yes?" 

"And — I could smell his sweat..." 

"Oh, yes?" 

"And his hands — both of his hands were balled into fists — I begin to see where you're going with this!" 

"Good!" 

They giggle together — 

They laugh *throatily* together — 

They giggle together *more* — and Thomas smiles up at Aramis with warmth and admiration and gratitude and — 

And no one ever used to look at him that way. 

No one ever used to *treat* him — 

Aramis leans in and kisses Thomas's forehead. "We will fix all things for you, Porthos and I. You will see." 

Thomas nods once, utterly confident in this pronouncement — 

Aramis reaches for Porthos — 

(Well, you have to give me a minute, love —) 

What is wrong? 

(Nothing!) 

*Porthos*. 

(We might be tossing ourselves off? A bit?) 

What. 

(I don't want to get him pregnant!) 

But you *do* want — 

(To come all over my own hand really — really *fucking* imminently to images of Olivier doing *exactly* what his mum tells him to do to Thomas.) 

Um.

(Do I apologize here? Because you feel shocked, but you don't feel *hurt*, but *I* feel a lot less hard than I did a minute ago —) 

Oh — Porthos. 

(Yeah, I — anything for you, anything —) 

We've been talking — Thomas and I — about Thomas and Olivier and their *father*. 

(Oh fuck.) 

Yes. 

(Are you — you're not hard.) 

Not... very? 

(You don't know Aunt Marie-Angelique and Uncle Laurent well enough for that, I'd wager.) 

Perhaps not? Porthos — 

(I *am* sorry —)

No, no, you were not — you were not making *love* with him — were you? 

(No! We — we're on opposite sides — no.) 

Do you *want* to make — 

(Let's put the brothers in one room and us in another and — and talk.) 

Aramis pants — yes. Please. 

(Right, meet us here? We'll *have* our bloody trousers on.) 

And Aramis tries to hide how much he dislikes that 'us' — 

How much it squeezes his *heart* — 

No, no, not now — 

Porthos sees it, feels it — 

Porthos *strokes* him, and winces inside, and pulls back with an apology — 

A *shame* — 

Aramis does not want his *shame* — 

*He* winces and pinches the bridge of his nose — 

"Aramis? What's wrong?" 

Oh — fuck. Aramis laughs ruefully. "Our brothers, our loves, they grew *excited* while talking about these things." 

"Excited...?" But Thomas is drawing back behind his eyes. 

He has felt this hurt, before. "They were masturbating together." 

"Oh." 

"They have stopped now." 

"You — interrupted them." 

"Yes," Aramis says, and hates that it comes out hissed, hates that he's standing, pacing, growling — 

"You're jealous of Olivier." 

"Yes." 

"I'm jealous of Porthos." 

"I know this thing," Aramis says, and hates that, too. 

"We — shouldn't we stop?" 

Aramis *looks* at Thomas, who is also standing, and who has straightened his clothes to perfection. Very good. 

"I know that sounded... very pathetic and young, Aramis, but — Olivier would never try to take Porthos from you, even if Porthos *did* — somehow — offer to make love with him, and Porthos *would* never cheat on you." 

Aramis feels... very bruised. 

Very — 

And then Thomas coughs a laugh. "Was that convincing? You were looking at me like I was an *insect* for a moment," Thomas says, and crosses his arms over his chest. 

Aramis blinks — "I... Thomas?" 

"Of course I'm jealous. Of course — I *do* think that *logically* we should stop, that *logically* there's no reason for us to be jealous... but." 

"You are not always a logical boy. Are you." 

"Do I *look* like one?" And Thomas rests his hands on his slim hips — 

Lets his dark blond curls fall to his shoulders as they will — or *appear* to do so — 

And purses his pretty pink lips. Mm. 

Aramis smiles. "It is not at *all* fair that were *we* to make love —" 

"All our brothers would do is wait politely for us to stop?" 

Aramis laughs helplessly. "Oh — oh, if Porthos did that, I would kill him in our *bed*!" 

"He would deserve it," Thomas says, nodding solemnly and reaching for Aramis's hand. 

"Yes, please," Aramis says, taking it and squeezing it firmly — but not too — 

"I'm *not* breakable." 

He squeezes firmly. 

"Thank you." 

"You are *welcome*, little brother," Aramis says, and walks them to the door. "Come, let us teach our brothers *better*." 

"Agreed."


	4. Let's approach this like fuck-dumb teenagers.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Wait, why is it disturbing to *you* that I'm sexually attracted to Mother? You're in *love* with your *father*." 
> 
> "I." Porthos frowns and obviously stops to think about it. 
> 
> Olivier puts his head back in his hands. 
> 
> "No, no, I've got it — head *up*, Olivier, we've work to do —" 
> 
> "Can't we just drink? I feel certain that our elders would drink in this situation."

It was a mistake to try to be with — with *people* today. 

It was a mistake — 

Or. 

It would've been one thing if it were only Aramis and Porthos. Them, Olivier could've put off with talk of illness, or — 

Of course, it was Aramis who had provided him with that lie. 

He's not good at this. 

He's always had *Thomas* for this — 

Thomas, who had *begged* him to stay with them — 

Thomas who had even come out to watch them spar, and shoot, and wrestle — 

Just to be closer.

Just to be with — him. 

Not — 

To be with him. 

Olivier is sweating. 

Olivier is overheated.

Olivier is *needy*, and Porthos was talking about secrets like he already knew, but how could he?

How could he even — 

Porthos is someone who has no difficulty making love with his father and brother, no difficulty *considering* that kind of *incest*, living that *life*, but his father and brother desire — 

Olivier stops in the hall — 

Olivier catches his breath at the memory of Father's groans, Father's — 

Father's *exhortations* to Mother to keep going, keep talking, keep sharing her *fantasies* — 

What are Father's fantasies? 

What does *he* want?

What — 

What would Olivier do, precisely, if Father *only* desired Thomas?

Other than bury himself in the desires of. 

In.

At breakfast this morning, Mother and Father had been — not completely normal. They had behaved like people with secrets, though not like people with *incestuous* secrets. 

They had been happy, glowing, cheerful — 

Mother had giggled when Uncle Treville had kissed her fingers — 

And giggled more when Father had kissed the fingers of her other hand more assiduously — 

*Thomas* had giggled, so happily, so —

Mother had been... glowing. 

They had asked him, Thomas, Aramis, and Porthos about their plans for the day and listened with interest — and not as though *they* had any interest in interrupting those plans.

They — 

They plan to sport the weekend away. 

They plan to — 

If Olivier were to turn this corner — 

Walk down that hall, to Uncle Treville's rooms — 

Kneel at the door — 

Would he hear Father's fantasies? 

Would he hear Father ordering Uncle Treville to *service* Mother again? 

To serve him? 

And what of Uncle Treville's fantasies? Does he have them? Does anyone so well-satisfied — 

He has Aramis *and* Porthos — 

He has — 

Surely that's enough? 

He had *raised* Porthos from *infancy*, and surely that would — would *serve* that desire?

Olivier doesn't know enough about how all of this works.

Olivier —

He would very much like to ask Father, who always answers every question, always *tries* — 

Or would he answer this question with a touch?

Would his hands shake? 

Would they be as strong and firm and sure as they've always *been* — 

Oliver pants for the feel of sweat running down the back of his neck and starts walking again, starts — 

He's all but *running* to his own rooms, and he gets there quickly, closes the door behind him, unlaces his shirt and — 

Paces — 

Thinks — 

*Wants* — 

Thomas had touched him so much.

Thomas had wanted — 

Thomas usually *waits* for *Olivier* to touch — and the thought stops him, because it's one he's never quite had before. 

It's not that he hadn't been aware of Thomas's social deftness, of his perfection and politesse, but put *that* way — 

Thomas had been waiting for him.

Thomas had been *waiting* for him. 

Thomas — wanted — no.

No, he couldn't — 

That was — that was *Mother's* fantasy, and even though good sons gave their mothers what they needed — 

Olivier swallows with a click —

And stops himself from imagining going to Thomas — 

Phrasing the matter that way — 

Thomas would say yes before Olivier finished *speaking* — 

Thomas would give Olivier scenarios, suggestions, *scripts* — 

Olivier hears himself make a *desperate* noise — 

"Right, we're going to talk about — are you killing yourself in here?" 

"Porthos — *Christ*." 

"And you're actually cursing at me — look, I know I shouldn't just barge in on you," he says, barging in, "but we *have* to talk —" 

"No, we don't." 

"Yes, we do." 

"No —" 

"*Yes* —" 

"Porthos —" 

"You want your brother." 

Olivier makes a noise that — has no honour whatsoever. None. 

Porthos nods, moving closer and pulling Olivier in for a *hug* — 

"*Porthos*, what —" 

"Shut it." 

"*No*." 

"*Yes* —" 

Olivier growls — 

And Porthos smacks the back of Olivier's head before hugging him harder. 

"You." 

"Shut it." 

Olivier considers punching Porthos in the ribs — 

Porthos would toss him — 

It would give Olivier time to regroup or possibly — 

"Don't do it, mate." 

"Porthos." 

"Take the sodding hug and shut it." 

"I do not want this hug." 

"Too bad." 

Olivier growls again — 

Porthos *smacks* him *again* — 

Olivier stiffens — 

*Porthos* growls like a *dog* — 

And Olivier sees his future. It involves being wrestled humiliatingly easily and quickly to the floor and then hugged *more* in what will probably be a hideously uncomfortable position. 

And possibly being found in that position by his parents, Uncle Treville, Aramis, *and* Thomas.

And — 

Olivier subsides and takes the damned hug. 

"*Thank* you." 

Olivier says nothing, but continues taking the hug. And — 

Breathes. 

And breathes — 

And feels something... loosen within him. "Oh." 

"Yeah, eh? Keep breathing." 

"Porthos —": 

"You're wound tighter than some kind of sodding bowstring. *Breathe*." 

"I — can do that." He does that. 

He keeps doing that. He — 

"I think it's reasonable for me to be — wound." 

"No." 

"I —" 

"No." 

"Porthos —" 

"Keep breathing and I'll tell you why not." 

"Hm." Olivier breathes. 

And breathes — 

And — 

"No, keep doing it, brother," Porthos says, and licks his temple the way he does now, and it *is* soothing, and — 

Olivier breathes. 

"Thank you," Porthos says, and licks him *again*. "Right, so, this is *not* the most horrible thing —" 

"You don't know —" 

"I know you want your brother." 

"I. I do." 

"Right, so, we can talk about that, and Aramis is talking to Thomas right now —" 

"That really is very ominous —" 

"Well, that's insulting." 

"No, I — I don't mean it to be —" 

Porthos licks him again. "I was joking, mate. Breathe some more." 

"I will do that." He does that. 

"Aramis is talking to Thomas, who, and I'm just going to say this, *probably* isn't going to react too negatively to all of this —"

Olivier *bucks* against Porthos — 

Porthos grunts and squeezes him tighter — and then pulls back — 

"I apologize —" 

"No, I —" 

"It was — I don't have control —" 

"You need your *mates* to have control for you right now, yeah?" And Porthos makes soothing gestures with his hands. His dark eyes are wide. His — 

"You've never. You're not used to me being out of control." 

Porthos's expression is wry and soft. "Olivier." 

"Just — just *say* it —" 

"Shh, no, no, I'm not trying to hurt you —" 

"I have to — stay —" 

"You have to talk to me, while Aramis is talking to Thomas, so we can get all this worked out —" 

"I *can't* —" 

'Yeah, you can." 

"*Porthos* —" 

"We've already got the big, nasty secret out, brother. What are —" 

"We — there's something else." 

Porthos frowns slightly. "All right? What is it?" 

Olivier stares at him — he knows he looks desperate. 

"Oh, brother, no, don't — just *tell* me. You know the four of us can work it out, whatever it is, or we could get Daddy and *your* parents —" 

"We can't. Do that." 

Porthos rears back. "Why *not*?" 

Olivier stares — 

And stares — 

And turns around and walks further into his rooms, walks — 

He gets three paces before Porthos grabs his by the shoulder and spins him around — 

Olivier stares at his neck. 

"Brother... tell me," Porthos says, and his voice has that unmistakable *bite* of command, so different from Father's, so — 

His command is Uncle Treville's, perhaps more primal, perhaps more — 

"*Brother*." 

Olivier narrows his eyes. "I won't let you command me —" 

"I won't let *you* say something like that —"

Olivier turns aside —

"*Olivier* —" 

"They — desire us." 

"What — did you. Oh." 

And then Porthos is silent for long moments — he's speaking with Aramis. 

When he's speaking with his father, he looks entirely different. Perhaps somewhat younger, or smaller, or more — 

Contained. 

Olivier takes the reprieve for what it is and goes to sit on his bed. 

He puts his face in his hands. 

He remembers, with perfect clarity, the day, seven years ago, when a breakfast with Uncle Treville and Porthos had included Uncle Treville nipping Mother's fingertips — 

Father *looking* at Uncle Treville — 

And Uncle Treville *kissing* Mother's fingertips with a wink and a smile. 

They — all of the children — had giggled at the apparent foolery. 

It means so much more now. 

It raises so many more *questions* — 

Is Uncle Treville only allowed to allow his primal side *out* with Mother when Father decrees it so? 

When Mother does?

When Father and Mother discuss it between themselves and — 

How do they *raise* that topic of conversation?

How had they raised it the *first*— 

"Right, so, Thomas already knew." 

Olivier drops his hands — 

And stares at the rug — 

And *stares* — 

"And when I say he already knew, I mean that he was *entirely* aware that your parents wanted *both* of you —" 

"Oh — *God* — he was protecting me." 

"Yeah —" 

"I can't let him —" 

"Too late." 

"It's *my* duty to protect *him* —" 

"And you'll *absolutely* take it up with him when the time comes," Porthos says, and leans against the far wall. "In the meantime — he wants you." 

Olivier inhales sharply. "I..." 

"Take your time, think about it." 

"I can't." 

"Olivier —" 

"If I do — I'll lose control. Again." 

Porthos licks his lips. "And when you say *that* —" 

"I've spent more of the past fourteen hours masturbating — I can't. Every time my thoughts stray *remotely* close to those areas — I *can't*." 

"Right, well, I think you should." 

"*Porthos*." 

"Here's why: You're *going* to be in a room with Thomas. You're going to be in a room *alone* with Thomas. You're going to be in a room alone with Thomas while he's touching you and asking you why the sodding hell — in Thomas-language — you aren't touching *him* —" 

"Stop — please stop —" 

"And then you're going to *eat him alive* —" 

"Please —" 

"Like you were *close* to doing half a dozen times even though Aramis and I were right bloody there and you *thought* he was innocent." 

"I — I —" 

"And here's the worst of it — that you already know, because you know *yourself* — you'll hurt him." 

"No — *fuck*." 

"Yeah. See, I had to learn this lesson the hard way with Aramis, and the worst part is that I had to learn it more than *once*." 

"Oh. You *hurt* him?" 

Porthos frowns grimly and nods. "Daddy's not just all over us because he loves and wants us, you know? He's *teaching* me how to control myself. How to keep from hurting Aramis *badly*." 

"Oh... Porthos. Have you... I don't know how to ask..." 

Porthos spreads his hands. "The dog in me has scarred him. *Aramis* says that he doesn't mind, says that he wears my scars with *pride* —" 

"But you don't believe him." 

"Heh, well, that's just it, isn't it? I *have* to believe him. The link between us wouldn't have it any other way. But it's never going to sit right." 

Olivier nods. "I understand." 

"Do you?" 

"I — have to find my control before it's wrested from me utterly." 

"Yeah. *That*. So — how can I help you do that, eh?"

Olivier stares at Porthos. 

"I *mean* it. You need to relax before you *shatter* — and leave Thomas to bleed on the pieces." 

"I'm *capable* of — of *masturbating* —" 

"And when he throws you something you weren't expecting?" 

"I — what?" 

"When he says or does something that you absolutely didn't see *coming*, brother." 

Olivier stares into the black pit of his utterly-assured *failures* —

"Yeah, like that. So talk it out with me. Where *are* your limits, eh?" 

"I... I'm not certain." 

"Yeah, you are. You just don't know it, yet." 

"Pardon?" 

"It's like Daddy was telling me — I already knew a *lot* about what drove me mad when it came to sex, I just hadn't really pinned it *down*, yet. It was still squirming about in the back of my head, wreaking all sorts of bloody *havoc*. So let's pin *your* stuff down, eh?" 

"I... suppose?" 

"All *right*, then," Porthos says, and claps his palms against the wall. "What have you been tossing yourself off to, eh? What's been driving you up a tree?" 

Olivier opens his mouth, meaning to say something about Thomas touching him, Thomas's soft hands, Thomas *pulling* — "Mother." 

"Uh." 

"Fuck." 

"Have I mentioned how *disturbing* it is —" 

"That I'm sexually attracted to my mother? No, but I was taking it as read." 

"Well, no, but also yes — I was just going to say that it was really disturbing how you enunciate your curses all the time —" 

"I enunciate *everything* —" 

"The curses are bloody different —" 

"Wait, why is it disturbing to *you* that I'm sexually attracted to Mother? You're in *love* with your *father*." 

"I." Porthos frowns and obviously stops to think about it. 

Olivier puts his head back in his hands. 

"No, no, I've got it — head *up*, Olivier, we've work to do —" 

"Can't we just drink? I feel certain that our elders would drink in this situation." 

"Yes, they *would*, but they would *also* fuck, and that's what we have to do, too, so *up*." 

Olivier lifts his head — "About Mother?" 

"Right, it's disturbing to me because I didn't have time to, you know, get to think of *my* mum that way. She was always non-sexual." 

Olivier stares at Porthos. 

"What?" 

Olivier keeps staring. 

"*What*? What is it?" 

"You."

"Olivier —" 

"You're saying you think you *would* have started thinking of your mother sexually if she had lived." 

"Well, stands to reason, doesn't it? Now, on to your problem —" 

Olivier puts his face back into his hands and laughs hysterically. 

"You know, I can't decide if that's improvement or *not*." 

Olivier throws himself back on the bed and laughs *harder* — 

"Right, well, you've got to let it out somehow, so —" 

"You're the biggest bloody deviant in the whole *family*!"

"How d'you figure? I mean, your father's pretty weird." 

Olivier snickers hard and helplessly — 

"You've got to give me that —" 

Olivier wheezes — 

"I mean, he's the weirdest one *I* know —" 

"*Porthos*." 

"Mm?" 

Olivier sits up on his elbows and *looks* at his brother — 

His closest, dearest friend in the world — 

His — 

His *brother*, strong and brave, loving and true, kind and warm, always so — 

And this — 

This shouldn't be heat in his belly. This — 

"Olivier...?" 

Olivier shakes his head, licking his lips — 

"*Come* on, I know *something* is wrong!"

And — he certainly has a reasonable half-truth to hand. "I'm. I'm aroused." 

"Oh. Well — let's do something about that, eh?" 

Olivier grunts — 

"Yeah, I *know*, brother," Porthos says, leaning back against the wall again. "So what *did* you hear? What's been going through your mind —" 

"Fantasies." 

"Yeah, I got that part, but —" 

"No, I. They were. They were *talking* about *their* fantasies," Olivier says, and stares into Porthos's dark eyes. 

"Oh... shit. And — about you and Thomas." 

"Yes." 

"About — damn. That's *hot*," Porthos says, and rubs his right thigh with his hand. "Did they both...?" 

"I don't — I only overheard Mother. It wasn't long after she talked about her fantasy that... ah. The pregnancy was confirmed." 

"Fuck. I still can't believe I'm going to have a little — something. Heh. After all this time." And Porthos bites his lip. 

Olivier blinks. "Are *you* all right?" 

"What? Oh — fuck, yeah, I am —" 

"Porthos —" 

"I *am*, I promise. I'm just... thinking of Jeannette." 

"Your sister." 

"Yeah. And my mum. She would've loved this, I think. Or maybe she would've narrowed her eyes in that way she had every *once* in a while... I don't know." 

Olivier raises an eyebrow. "You think she *wouldn't* have wanted this?" 

"No, that's not —" Porthos licks his lips. "I... it was always *really* obvious that Daddy wanted to give Maman *his* child —" 

"They. They talked about that, too." 

"Did they? Good. He needs to talk about that more." 

Olivier nods. That much was clear. 

"I — anyway. *I* knew all along that Daddy wanted it, and I started wanting it with him, and... hoping."

"That's reasonable —" 

"There were times..." 

"Porthos?" 

"I wonder how much of the... *something* I could sense from Maman, sometimes, when Daddy would come back from time with *your* mother was just that hope, you know?" 

"Oh." 

"Yeah." 

"I..." 

"Yeah," Porthos says, and smiles ruefully. "I knew... a lot about what went on between Daddy and Maman, and Daddy's told me even more, and I think... well. I think what it boils down to is that Maman was better at keeping secrets from Daddy than Daddy was at *mining* secrets from Maman. I mean — if Maman said something was private, or even *implied* something was private —" 

"Uncle Treville would respect that." 

"Like — like nothing *else*." 

"She *was* his liege," Olivier says, and — doesn't know if that will help, or not.

"Yeah, but more. I think, maybe... maybe Daddy didn't push enough. As much as he should have." 

"Oh." 

"Yeah. I'm not going to make that mistake." 

"Not with Aramis?" 

"Not with anyone I love, brother," Porthos says, and looks at him — 

Into him — 

*Into* him, the way he *can* — 

Olivier — doesn't turn away — 

And Porthos nods and licks his lips. "Right," he says, and adjusts himself in his trousers — 

Just like — 

Just like — that — 

"Porthos —" 

"Let's talk about your mum." 

"Is this. A reprieve?" 

Porthos raises his eyebrows. "I don't know. Is it?" 

"Don't — don't do that —"

"Right, sorry, I won't. But let me put it like this: what's between us has to stay exactly where it is, and *how* it is, at *least* until we speak to our lovers." 

"I don't *have* a —" 

"You really do, and his name is Thomas, and he'll probably do something really mean to all of us while also being really *sad* if you don't acknowledge that." 

Olivier feels himself blanch. 

"All *right*?" 

"Yes — I. Yes. How do I — help me. Help me — take care of him," Olivier says, and flushes. 

"Fuck, yeah. So, you've got fantasies in your head —" 

"She." Olivier licks his lips. "She talked about... washing me. And Thomas." 

"Oh. Yeah?" And Porthos strokes his own thigh again. "Touching you... with a cloth?" 

"She didn't say. I can't decide if I want her to use a — that's a lie. I want her to use her bare hands." 

"Fuck. 'course you do. Her hands are *soft*." 

"You've. You've noticed her hands?" 

Porthos looks at him. "She's the only woman in my *life*, Olivier. I notice *everything* about her." 

"Oh." 

"Um." 

"I." 

"Sorry?" 

"No, I." 

"I mean —" 

"Do you notice her..." 

"Yes? I'm going to say yes." 

"Porthos..." 

"Mm?" 

"Are you *attracted* to my mother?" 

Porthos shuffles on his feet — "Yes." 

"I." 

"I didn't think about it before, I promise." 

"No?" 

"No." 

"Really?" 

"Not much." 

"Not... Porthos." 

"*Look*, we're talking about *you* now —" 

"Do you think about Mother's *breasts*." 

"All the bloody *time* —" 

"Oh my God." 

"I'm *sorry* —" 

"Me, too, because now I'm thinking — all right, I'm *not* thinking about you and Mother's breasts." 

"No?" 

"No. I'm thinking about rubbing soapy water all over —" 

"Oh my God —" 

"Thomas is helping —" 

"Keep *going* —" 

"Is this really supposed to *help*?" 

"It's helping *me*," Porthos says, and they snicker together, loud and helpless and — 

More than a little ridiculously. 

Olivier is still painfully hard for it. 

Still... "I want... I want to *please* her." 

"Yeah. I. 'course you do. And you want Thomas to help you do that." 

"Yes. Yes. She — her fantasy was all about me watching Thomas *perform*, the way I always do, and getting hard for it and for her... ministrations..." 

"Oh — fuck — keep going —" 

"And then... Thomas would get... curious —" 

"And come over? Close? The way he does?" 

"We'd be cuddled together, and I'd be so overcome that I'd... bite him —" 

"Fuck — I *love* biting —" 

"Everyone who's seen even a *little* bit of Aramis's skin has noticed that —" 

Porthos laughs helplessly — "I can't bloody *help* it. He's so — so *creamy* —" 

"Not where you've *bruised* him —" 

"He's even *better* there —" 

"Thomas is. Pale." 

"Yeah, he is. Paler than you, even," Porthos says, and waggles his eyebrows. 

"Do you... like that?" 

"What? I don't —" 

"Think of Thomas that way? *Yet*?" 

"Uhh..." 

Olivier laughs. "We're ruining ourselves. Utterly — say something about Aramis. Something —" 

"I bet he'd look *amazing* suckling your mum's breasts." 

"UNH —" 

"Something like that?" 

"*Fuck* —" 

"'course, I think all of us would look amazing suckling your mum's breasts —" 

"Oh my God, I — I —" 

"You want to." 

"Don't — I —" 

"You *want* to. You want those springy little — are they little? — nipples in your mouth —" 

"Please — they're. They're very round and. Plump." 

"Oh. Shit," Porthos says, and opens his trousers — 

Olivier does the *same* — "But maybe they *aren't* anymore —" 

"Why *wouldn't* they be —" 

"She was — she was *nursing* the last time I *saw* them —" 

"Oh — fuck. That makes them different?" And Porthos is fumbling with the laces on his breeches — 

"I have no *idea*!" 

"*Fuck*, why doesn't anyone tell us these — oh, oh, yeah, that's good —"

"Yes — *yes*," Olivier says, and strokes himself, *works* himself — 

"C'mon, you used to watch Thomas nurse —" 

"He was *three* —" 

"But you know how he *does* it. Bloody *extrapolate* —" 

"He — he *talks*." 

"Oh — yeah, he always talks —" 

"He — he'd be messy —" 

"Milk running down his chin —" 

"*What* milk?" 

"*Her* milk!" 

"We're stealing her *milk*?" 

"Oh, fuck, it's even hotter when you put it that way," Porthos says, and strokes himself fast, *fast* — 

"God — it *is*, and I *hate* you for —" And Olivier squeezes himself and *groans* — 

"Shit, do that again —" 

Olivier obeys and cries out — 

Porthos pants and throws his head back and strokes *faster*, panting and moaning and — 

And Olivier is lost between the sight of what's right in front of him and the images in his mind, the — 

Thomas with milk on his chin — 

Father with milk in his beard — 

Uncle Treville *biting* Mother's nipple — 

Porthos tossing his head and *fucking* his own fist so brutally — 

His cock is so big, so much bigger than those of the other recruits, so *thick* — 

Dripping — 

But he can't, they can't, not now — 

Olivier looks *away* — and it's easy enough to think of — 

Other — 

Porthos cupping Mother's breasts, squeezing and making the milk *drip* — no.

Aramis and Thomas suckling Mother's breasts — 

Thomas giggling and suckling milk off his deft — deft little fingers — 

Porthos *biting* his other fist — 

Father holding Mother down — 

Father holding Mother down for *them*, for *all* of them — 

("*Knot* her.") 

Olivier *drops* onto his back and works his other hand into his breeches, cups his balls, works them, *works* them — 

Porthos is *moaning* — 

Porthos's moan cuts off *sharply* — 

Is he — 

Is he spending? 

Just the thought of that makes Olivier work himself harder, *grind* into his fist, *pump* his balls — 

He needs — 

But what if Mother wanted to taste Thomas? 

What if she — 

What if Thomas straddled her — 

Her beautiful face — 

And she would take him in, his cock, and his arse would flex — 

Olivier could spread — 

Him — 

Olivier *barks* a cry and spends all over his — shirt, damn, but he can't care, he can't *care*, because his mind is full of the *sucking* sounds from last night, the slurping and humming and *gulping* and *swallowing* — 

Mother could *make* all those sounds around Thomas — 

He could see — 

He could *have* — 

Olivier is groaning and spurting and — 

Losing himself, *losing* himself — 

Thomas could make those sounds, too, and Olivier spurts *more* — 

Groans *helplessly* — 

And collapses.

And — feels. Better?

Does he? 

He *does*. But he absolutely doesn't think he *should*, which — 

"Mate, I hate to interrupt —" 

"Why are you *coherent*?" 

"Because Aramis tapped me on the mental shoulder and reminded me that — um. Yeah." 

That doesn't sound — Olivier wipes his hands on his third handkerchief of the day and sits up on his elbows again. "Are we... have we... done something incorrect?" 

"I think maybe? I mean, I already knew Aramis was jealous of you —" 

"*Why*?" 

"Because you're my brother, and I love you, and you've been in my life forever, and also you're a really good *soldier*..." Porthos shrugs. "He lets me see inside him. He lets me see that he's frightened of losing me to someone 'better' than him." 

"But I would never — *we* would never —" 

"He knows that — logically — but. C'mon, clothes on. Aramis and Thomas are on their way here. Aramis and I *need* to go talk about what just happened." 

"And — you're leaving me alone with Thomas?" 

Porthos looks at him. "No better time, brother, eh?" 

Olivier shivers. "You'd *think* so," he says, stripping off his soiled shirt and dabbing at the spatters of spend on his trousers and breeches. 

He dresses as best as he can — 

He's being so *wasteful* — 

No, no, another shirt, because if Aramis is jealous — and the concept truly is one of the *more* bizarre ones he's been exposed to this weekend — 

He puts it aside. 

He dresses himself respectably. Or — "I feel like I smell like a brothel." 

Porthos lifts his nose and flares his nostrils — and grins. "The brothel *I* went to smelled more like *perfume*, brother." 

"Oh. Truly?" 

"Oh, yeah. It was really nice —" 

"I always imagine seedy, seamy... you know." 

"Well, yeah, that's what most of the men in the regiment can afford. There are brothels for people from all walks of life." 

"I imagine so. I — this shouldn't feel like small talk." 

Porthos smiles painfully — and stays all the way against the opposite wall. 

It makes it entirely necessary for Olivier to stay right where *he* is. "Porthos... should I apologize?" 

"*No*, I — no. If anything, I should. I pushed you —" 

"I wanted to *be* pushed —" 

"Did you?" 

Olivier inhales —

And swallows — 

"You've always known me." 

"We — we grew up together —" 

"You've always known exactly how much I've needed to be... pushed. Sometimes." 

"I — yeah. We all need —" 

"By you." 

"Fuck, Olivier —" 

"And so — maybe. Maybe we both should apologize." 

Porthos looks at him — 

*Into* him — 

His eyes are so — 

"I've. Always wanted to tell you that your eyes are beautiful." 

"*Olivier* —" 

"I'm not sure if that was any more inappropriate a time than any of the other times the thought has occurred —" 

"Shit —" 

"Are you *attracted* to me?" 

And then Aramis and Thomas walk *in* — 

And Aramis looks at Porthos with such need, such hope, such honest *devotion* — 

And Thomas looks at *him*... 

But Porthos is still staring into his eyes — 

Porthos is still — 

Olivier moans and cups Thomas's shoulder — 

"Will you answer him, beautiful Porthos?" 

"Aramis —" 

"Will you answer him and let me *hear* the way you say it —" 

"Shit — yeah. Yeah, I'm attracted to Olivier. I'm — I want him." 

Olivier shivers. "And I — desire Porthos." 

Thomas stiffens — but only for a moment. 

Aramis only nods. "Perhaps we should leave you alone?" 

"*No*," Porthos says, raising his hands. "I — fuck. We've got to *talk*. We don't have to split up for that if you don't *want* to, but —" And then Porthos stops and turns to Aramis — 

They're speaking privately. 

They — 

Aramis is using the waves of his hair and the shadows to hide his expression — and Olivier is staring far too much.

He turns to Thomas. He — 

He cups *both* of Thomas's shoulders, because he's made his brother wait too long for his touch, because he has, perhaps, made Thomas think he hasn't desired — 

Thomas isn't quite looking — 

"Thomas..." 

"Yes?" 

"Please look at me." 

"I would rather not." 

And that — says everything. "We have to split up for now. I need time alone with my brother."

Thomas winces and tries to pull away — 

And Olivier does something he never — he uses his greater strength and physical *ability* to *yank* Thomas close — 

"*Olivier* —" 

He presses his lips to Thomas's ear — "You must never think I don't want to be with you —" 

"Don't —" 

"You must never think it's a *hardship* to be in your *presence* —" 

"Please, Olivier —" 

"You must understand that you have been the light of my *existence* since you were *born*," Olivier growls, and holds Thomas *tighter* — 

And, after a moment, Thomas clings *back* — 

It's all Oliver can do not to crush the *breath* out of him — 

But Porthos is looking at him again — 

He and Aramis are *tightly* holding hands — 

And Porthos says: "We'll — we'll all talk later." 

Olivier and Thomas nod. 

Aramis inclines his head. 

Olivier watches Aramis and Porthos walk out — 

Listens to them close the door behind them — 

Pants — 

"Do — you want to call them back." 

Olivier blinks — "No. I want to lock the door." 

Thomas pushes back enough to meet Olivier's eyes — with some difficulty; Olivier can't seem to let him *go* — and studies him with a small frown. He — 

No, say it, say everything. Olivier licks his lips — "I never want to see you frown." 

"Oh —" 

"I always want you *happy*," he says — *grits*, really, and — "I — I don't want that to sound like an order."

Thomas purses his lips, which is better than a frown — "Should I believe that?" 

"I — which part?" 

The corner of Thomas's mouth twitches. "That you didn't want that to be an order." 

"Oh... no. Probably not." 

Thomas giggles softly, looking down again — 

"Please look up. Please look at me." 

"I look at you all the time," Thomas says, and keeps looking down. 

"I'm not — I'm not always ready for it." 

"You're ready now?" 

"*Yes*," he says, and that was another *grit* — "I apologize —" 

"I think you do want to order me," Thomas says, and looks up, wide-eyed and beautiful — 

So — 

"I think you want me to do what — exactly what you like." 

"*Thomas* —" 

"Don't you?" 

Olivier shakes his head, not meaning anything like no, and thinks about what Porthos had said about Thomas saying unexpected *things* — 

"Olivier..." 

"Thomas, I don't know — you know that I'm inexperienced —" 

"But you want to make love with me?" 

Olivier pants — God, almost in Thomas's *face* — 

Olivier is *moving* Thomas with his breaths — 

They're so close — 

"You want to... touch me? Sexually?" 

Olivier nods hungrily. 

"Is it like Porthos? Do you want to touch me the same ways you want to touch him?" 

"No — no." 

"No?" 

"I don't know..." Olivier swallows and searches Thomas, tries to — no. Ask. *Ask*. "Do you truly want to hear about Porthos right now?" 

Thomas firms his lips together into a hard line — 

Olivier wants to soften them again — 

Oliver wants to — 

He growls — 

Thomas gasps, lips parting, softening — 

"Yes, do that, do —" 

"Olivier —" 

"I need you *happy*," Olivier growls, and of course that's an order, of course he's *gripping* Thomas — 

Thomas *moans* — 

"Oh — God — am I *hurting* you?" And it's useless to say that — 

He's still *gripping* — 

He must be *bruising* — 

"I don't want you to stop," Thomas says, breathes, so *quietly*, so — 

Olivier kisses him, and it must be worthless, incompetent, *clumsy*, but Thomas's mouth feels so *soft* against his own, Thomas's mouth feels so warm, so smooth, so — 

Olivier moves his hands to Thomas's face, cups it, holds him, caresses — 

Thomas *moans* for him, moans so sweetly — 

Sucks at Olivier's lips sweetly, softly — 

Olivier's cock jerks, heedless of how recently he'd spent — 

Olivier can't help imagining the feel of those little sucks other *places* — 

He pants — 

Into Thomas's mouth — 

Oh, that can't be — he pulls back — 

Thomas moans and leans in, tries to keep — 

Oh — 

"Olivier, what — was that wrong?" And Thomas is blinking and wide-eyed, beautiful, *beautiful* — 

Olivier thinks he must sound like some sort of half-rusted *machinery* — 

He's still holding Thomas too *hard* — 

"Oh, Olivier, let me *please* you —" 

Olivier grunts and — he's opening Thomas's shirt — 

He's — 

Thomas is *smiling* and opening his *trousers* — 

Olivier shudders and needs this to stop — 

Needs Thomas to already be naked — 

Needs *Thomas* to stop and let *him* do this — that feels closest to right. He catches Thomas's hands — 

"No? Olivier? Please talk to me!"

That seems too much to ask right now, but he can kiss Thomas again, more softly this time, more competently, more evenly — 

Until Thomas licks Olivier's *mouth* — 

Olivier growls and squeezes Thomas's hands and bites his lips, his jaw — 

His throat — 

He sucks — 

He thinks of Mother's *fantasy* — but had Thomas choked and moaned like this in her fantasy? 

Had he clutched at Olivier — "That feels so *good*, Olivier!" 

Olivier pants again — 

Bites *harder* — 

Thomas cries out — "Yes! Yes, do that, and — I —"

"And what?" 

"I — I don't know..." 

That's entirely reasonable. The fact that it's *frustrating* — Olivier bites again, and again — 

Thomas *grunts* — "Oh. Oh, *Olivier*, I'm very hard —" 

"Do you want me to touch —" 

"I've wanted you to touch my cock for two *years*!" 

Olivier *groans* and sucks where he's bitten — 

"Or — oh, that — your mouth is so wonderful!" 

And that — "I want to kiss you everywhere, lick you and suck you and bite you —" 

"*Oh*! *Olivier*! I'm going to —" 

Olivier snarls and then —

Then Thomas *is* sprawled on the bed, just as if Olivier had pushed him, *thrown* — 

"*Olivier* —"

"*Thomas*, I —" 

"Please come touch me!" 

And it feels like advancing on prey, like he should have a rapier in his hand, like — 

There's nothing that's been *sweeter* than Thomas's smile when Olivier crawls onto the bed with him — 

"Yes — *yes* — " 

"Lie back." 

Nothing better than his moan, nothing greater than his obedience, so — 

He arches, spreads his legs when Olivier pushes — 

Never looks away from Olivier's *eyes* — 

He — 

But Olivier has to pay attention to what he's doing, has to open his brother, bare him — 

So pale — 

So unscarred —

Olivier *groans* and cups his cock — 

"*Olivier*!" 

"Do you like it?" 

But Thomas has no words for him, only gasps and cries and — 

Just for this.

Just for *this*, and it's almost maddening — he *needs* Thomas's words. He needs everything *about* Thomas. He needs — 

His flush — 

The way he's clutching at the duvet — 

The way he's kicked all the way out of one of his slippers, and the other is hanging off his toe — 

The way he's *whining*, whimpering, *sobbing* — and *then* Olivier realizes that he's stroking Thomas's cock, that he's doing it precisely the way he strokes his own, that — 

"*Thomas*," he says, growls — 

He needs Thomas's *attention* — 

He needs *everything* from him — 

And when Thomas *does* look — 

When he focuses, just for a moment — 

"I need you to *spend* for me!" 

And Thomas gasps — 

Cries out and *yanks* at the duvet — 

*Pumps* into Olivier's fist — 

"*Yes*, brother, yes — give me your *thrusts*!" 

"Olivier! *Please*!" 

"Please *what*." 

Thomas flushes *hard*, shaking his head — 

"Tell me! *Tell* me!" 

But Thomas goes rigid, mouth falling open on a silent cry as his cock spasms hard, *hard* — 

His spend arcs *high* — 

Olivier — can't. 

He lowers his head and *sucks* — 

Thomas chokes and gurgles and *thrashes* — 

Olivier holds him down, holds him tight, bruises him *more* — 

Thomas *screams* — 

Oh — 

Oh, *yes* — 

And the taste of Thomas on his tongue is sweet, perfect, faintly-thick and musky and Olivier takes more, takes *more* — 

Thomas screams *again* — 

Drums his *feet* — 

His slipper bounces across the bed and knocks into Olivier's elbow — 

The other one hits the floor — 

Olivier sucks and mouths and — there's no more. He wants more. He wants — 

He deliberately mashes his chin against Thomas's sac — 

"Oh — *Olivier*!" And Thomas spurts one more time, gives Olivier himself — 

Oliver sucks and tastes and swallows gratefully as Thomas moans, as Thomas shudders and whimpers and pushes — 

Oh. 

*Oh* — 

Olivier draws back, licking his lips — "Did I hurt you?" 

Thomas stares at him, wide-eyed and blinking and flushed and mussed and — 

And the part of Olivier which wants to put his brother back *together* again is — small. But vocal. "Thomas..." 

Thomas whimpers again, shaking his head, and — 

And Olivier is afraid. He — "Did you — that was too much. I did hurt you, I shouldn't have —" 

"Olivier, no —" 

"I should have — moved more slowly, or not at all —" 

"Olivier, *shut* it!" 

Olivier blinks — 

And stares — 

They stare at *each other* — 

And then Thomas giggles, prising his own hand from the duvet and covering his mouth. 

Olivier waits. 

Thomas giggles more.

Olivier opens his mouth — 

Thomas holds up his *other* hand — 

Olivier waits, and, after what feels like an eternity in a purgatory set aside specially for older brothers who molest their younger brothers — 

Thomas clears his throat. And hums. And smiles at him. 

Like *he's* the prey. 

"Thomas —" 

"Olivier... did you like that?" 

And Olivier is panting, just that quickly. He'd forgotten — 

He'd forgotten how hard *he* was. 

"Thomas..." 

"Tell me, please." 

Olivier licks his lips. "I love touching you. I... and I love the way you taste." 

Thomas opens his mouth and closes it once — "Do you want me to taste you?" 

"Don't —" 

"Do you?" 

"*Yes*." 

"Do you want me to do it more than you want me to do other things?"

'Other things', suddenly, is the most *sadistic* euphemism Olivier has ever heard. 'Other things' has possibilities within it that — 

That — 

Has Mother ever imagined Thomas's legs round Olivier's hips? Has she — 

"What are you thinking, Olivier?" 

"I — filth." 

Thomas's cheeks are immediately stained with flush again, and he. 

He lifts his stockinged foot — 

So smooth, so soft — 

He puts it on Olivier's *shoulder* — "Was it filth like this?" 

Olivier shakes his head dumbly. 

"Then what?" And Thomas leaves his foot *there* — 

"Thomas —" 

"Please tell me, Olivier. Please don't hide from me," Thomas says, and his eyes are *focused* on Olivier's own — 

So — "You pin me in *place*." 

"You're faster than me, and stronger. I have to do what I can." 

Olivier growls and pushes *close*, bending Thomas's leg back to his chest —

"*Oh* —" 

"What do you *want*?" 

And Thomas pants — 

And moans — 

"*Everything*!" 

It's a remarkably simplifying answer. It's. 

It's enough to get him to kneel up again, to *attack* the laces on his trousers — 

"Oh — Olivier," Thomas says, and the other stockinged foot is at his groin, pressing and pushing — 

Olivier *bucks* — 

Olivier gets his trousers open and *grinds* his barely-covered cock against Thomas's foot — 

Thomas gasps — "Do you like that? Do you want me to —" 

"*Yes*," Olivier says, and opens his breeches, tries to open his breeches without dislodging *either* of Thomas's feet, Thomas's wonderful — 

"Oh, Olivier, this is — this is —" 

"I know it's — I can't — everything about you feels *wonderful* —" 

Thomas makes a *hurt* sound and presses *hard* on Olivier's half-trapped cock — 

Olivier groans and thrusts and thrusts and — turns and *bites* Thomas's other foot — 

"*Olivier*!" 

Olivier growls and bites his way to Thomas's heel, sucks, grips his ankles *tight* — 

"Oh, *God*, Olivier!" 

And now he's — he's *shoving* against Thomas's foot, and the stockings are just a little too smooth, a little too *dry* — 

He growls and tears them *off*, both of them, and Thomas spreads his toes, pushes his soft feet closer, offers — 

Olivier *bites* his toes — 

Thomas gasps and moans — "Please let me make you *spend*!" 

And Olivier shouldn't be shoving his brother's feet at his own groin, shouldn't — 

But they're so soft, and so warm, and so strong as they *press* — 

As they awkwardly *stroke* — 

As they press and tickle and *press* — 

Olivier *shouts* — 

"Oh, brother — *brother* —" 

And Thomas is sitting up on his hands and *working* Olivier with his feet, Thomas is panting and staring, studying — 

Olivier wishes he could give him *answers* — 

But he's gripping Thomas's ankles again, he's — 

He's using his own hands as *manacles* on those slim, pale — 

He squeezes *tighter* — 

Thomas cries out and presses *harder* — 

They need, they both *need*, and that must mean this is all right, that must mean this is — 

Olivier is thrusting so hard, twisting, arching, bending back so Thomas's presses can crush his *balls* — 

Olivier *shouts* — 

Squeezes even harder — 

And when Thomas whimpers, whimpers so *high* — 

They're hurting each *other*, and that's so strange, so wicked and strange, and Olivier can't stop shouting as he *pumps* into the air, as he spills all over his beautiful brother's beautiful *feet* — 

Brothers should never — 

Brothers should *never* — 

Olivier *grinds* against Thomas's feet and lets himself go, lets himself *go* — 

Gasps and — 

Slumps — 

Pants — 

He can't release his *grip* on Thomas's ankles — no. No. He must. 

Thomas is still whimpering every few *breaths* — 

Olivier releases him — and Thomas *yanks* his feet away. It's a pang — 

Olivier kneels up and prepares to apologize — 

This time, perhaps, Thomas will understand that they *mustn't* — 

And then Thomas *launches* himself at Olivier, flattening them both to the bed — the wrong way round — and pushing up on Olivier's shoulders. 

He's smiling like a maniac — *beaming* — and he's — 

He's so — 

"Thomas... are you... happy?" 

"*Yes*!" 

"Why?" 

Thomas gives him a very speaking look. It's not at all dissimilar to some of the looks Mother has given him over the years, but — 

"I — Thomas —" 

"Did you *not* like what we just did?" 

"It — it was *deviant*, and —" 

"And you spent all *over* me!" 

"Only your feet and — and your ankles —" 

"Did you want to *cover* me with your spend, Olivier? *Mark* me with it?" 

Olivier moans — 

And Thomas *grins* — "You do! You're *primal*! That is primal, isn't it?" 

"I — I suppose —" 

"Perhaps I'll ask Aramis," Thomas says, and wriggles on top of him. "*Did* you like using my feet that way?" 

Olivier winces. "Just — the sound of that —" 

"Please *answer* me! You have to *teach* me these things, Olivier!" 

Olivier pants. "Every-everything?" 

"Everything! You're my *brother*." 

"And. You want me to teach you with my body?" 

Thomas moans and wriggles more — 

He's hard again — 

He's. 

Olivier growls and grips Thomas by the hips, *yanking* him closer again — 

"Olivier!" 

— so that their groins are pressed together, and that — 

"Oh oh *oh* —" 

— was perhaps a miscalculation — 

"Oh — *fuck*!" 

Olivier *bucks*, sensitized and *hurting*, but it's too — 

Thomas croons — 

Thomas's skin is too soft, too smooth, too hot, too hard, too *slick* — 

Olivier *growls* and *works* Thomas against him hard — 

Works him *hard* — 

Thomas *claws* his *chest* — 

Olivier *arches* — 

"*Olivier*!" 

"Do you *like* it?"

Thomas whimpers and *scrabbles* at his chest, bucks, thrusts — 

Thrusts *wildly* — 

Olivier pants and *groans* — 

"Olivier, I can't *stop*!"

And Olivier is hard, fully hard, he can't — 

He has one hand on Thomas's hip and the other on his soft, perfect arse — 

The skin is so downy, so soft — 

So — 

Like the skin of a *peach*, and Olivier is clutching hard, gripping, gripping with both hands, and Thomas is sobbing against his *throat* — 

Clawing his chest so *hard* — 

Leaving *welts* — 

They're hurting each other again. 

They — 

And it feels so *perfect* to lock Thomas's legs in place — 

To hold him *down* so that he can only buck and grind the way Olivier *lets* him, so he has to take what Olivier *gives* him, so — 

"Olivier — *Olivier* —"

And Olivier is thrusting *up* — 

"You're so —" 

Olivier is grinding *up* — 

"So *hard* —" 

Olivier is making Thomas *feel* — 

But. 

Years of wrestling with Porthos have made it easy to roll Thomas, pin him, *drive* against him — 

"*Please*!" 

"Do you *like* it!"

"Yes, Olivier, *yes* — *nuh* — *ungh* — please, *please*!" 

"Do — do you want — harder?" 

"All of you — ohn — give me — *give* me!" 

And Olivier can only pant and stare for a moment, only — 

But then he grinds *down* — 

Thomas *screams* — 

Olivier *shoves* against Thomas, shoves and shoves and — 

He can't — 

There's no stopping, there's no — 

There's no *possibility* of pausing — 

Thomas is tossing his *head* — 

Thomas is squeezing his eyes shut and shaking, groaning, panting — 

Olivier darts in for a kiss, messy and hard, *incompetent* — 

Thomas bucks *up* — 

Wraps his legs round Olivier's *waist* — 

And Olivier can't see, can't think, can't — 

Can't *stop* — 

He's *slamming* Thomas into the mattress — 

Forcing grunt after grunt out of his beautiful mouth — 

Olivier wants to devour them, wants to *bite* — 

He *bites* — 

And it's hot between them, slick, *wet* — 

Thomas is *keening* — spending. 

Oh. 

Oh... 

He's made his brother spend *again* — 

He — 

He kisses Thomas again and again and again, shoving into the slick-hot spend and wanting, wanting Thomas's mouth, wanting to somehow clean them both with his *own* mouth, wanting — 

Wanting everything, but *especially* this convulsive *clutch* of Thomas's thighs, this — 

"Don't stop! Please don't ever *stop*!" 

Olivier *pants* in Thomas's face again, kisses, bites, *bites*, and then he's biting his brother everywhere, thrusting wildly — 

 

"Olivier — oh, *brother*!" 

"*Brother*. I — I *love* you!" 

And Thomas gasps and bucks, whimpers again — 

Olivier *drives* against him, slams so hard, so — 

"Oh, Olivier, do it, *do* it, *mark* —" 

And Olivier bites his throat *hard* as he spends — 

As Thomas howls — 

As Oliver grinds into his own mess, *their* own mess — 

So sticky and *hot* — 

Thomas's wrists *flex* under his hands — 

He hadn't even realized — 

Oh, he's bruising him again, he must be — 

And the thought — or maybe it's Thomas's cries — makes him spasm more, but nothing comes out, nothing — 

He's dry for the moment, dry and still *hungry* — 

He *grinds* — 

"B-brother —" 

Olivier *licks* a path to Thomas's mouth and kisses him, kisses him until it feels like he's doing it at least somewhat correctly — 

And then keeps doing it, because Thomas is arching up into his kisses, taking them — 

Demanding them — 

Moaning and making other little sounds — 

Hungry and happy — 

Olivier keeps kissing, holds his brother down and keeps *kissing* — 

"Yes — mm — oh, *mm* — yes — " 

"I want to kiss you for *hours*," Olivier slurs into Thomas's mouth, fucks into his mouth with his tongue — 

Oh, that feels so good — 

He keeps that up — 

Thomas gurgles and moans and — turns away — 

"No? Thomas?" 

He giggles breathlessly — "You'll make me hard again!" 

Oh. "I want to." 

Thomas blinks — and grins. "Right now?" 

"Yes —" 

"Kiss me!" 

"The way —" 

"Kiss me hard, kiss me — fuck me with your tongue, make me hard, make me spend —" 

Olivier bites Thomas's lip — 

"Nnh — " 

Olivier kisses Thomas, *takes* his mouth — 

"*Mmmm*..." 

Thomas's hands *jerk* where they're pinned against the bed — 

They can speak later.


	5. Well, as reassurances go...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos slams Aramis against the door, hard enough to make him gasp, but hopefully not hard enough to hurt much. "Aramis." 
> 
> "Porthos. Do you plan to brutalize me until I have the proper attitude —" 
> 
> Porthos *shifts*, just his muzzle, and *snarls* — 
> 
> Aramis *jerks* — and finally meets his eyes. 
> 
> Porthos nods and shifts back. "Thank you. Please talk to me. Please *be* with me. Nothing is right without you."

Porthos closes Olivier's door behind himself and squeezes Aramis's hand tight with his other hand — 

"Do you regret closing that door, my beautiful Porthos?" 

Porthos *blinks* — "*No*. We have to *talk* —" 

Aramis nods once, and doesn't quite look at him. "Even though you are leaving behind an Olivier who desires your touch?" 

"Aramis —" 

"Please answer." 

Porthos frowns. Aramis has *walls* up, and Porthos thinks he'd probably *earned* that, but... "Making you feel right always comes first." 

"And *then* you will make love with Olivier?" 

Porthos growls — 

Aramis starts to sweat as they walk down the hall to their rooms, but — doesn't look. 

Doesn't pull down his walls. 

Doesn't — 

"I'll never do anything that hurts you. Not on purpose, anyway. I'm — I'm *yours*." 

Aramis firms his lips into a hard line and says nothing — 

And says nothing — 

And *stops* them in front of their door and *continues* to say — 

"Love..." 

"There are things you are not telling me." 

Porthos frowns harder. "Olivier and I... we talked about a lot of things, yeah. I'll tell you everything. I'll *always* tell you everything." 

Aramis's expression starts to *crumple* —

No, no — 

Porthos pulls him close because he *has* to, even though Aramis is stiff in his arms, even though he doesn't want this hug, even though — "Please, love, please tell me how to make it right —" 

"You can't." 

"No —" 

"Olivier will ride with you *long* before I do —" 

"*None* of us are riding for at least a *year*, Aramis —" 

"You will be *alone* with him —" 

"And we'll be talking about *you*, and *Thomas* — and. Uh. Can we go inside?"

If anything, Aramis gets even *more* stiff. "What. What is it?" 

"There's something I need to tell you in *private*, love." 

"Something you talked about with Olivier before you talked about it with me?" 

Porthos winces. "I didn't *think* of it with you, love." 

"Because you have known *him* all your life, because *he* is your true brother —" 

"Don't *do* that —" 

"I am not —" 

Porthos slams Aramis against the door, hard enough to make him gasp, but hopefully not hard enough to hurt much. "Aramis." 

"Porthos. Do you plan to brutalize me until I have the proper attitude —" 

Porthos *shifts*, just his muzzle, and *snarls* — 

Aramis *jerks* — and finally meets his eyes. 

Porthos nods and shifts back. "Thank you. Please talk to me. Please *be* with me. Nothing is right without you." 

Aramis gives him a *bruised* look — 

"*Please*." 

"You. You say nothing is right without me." 

"It *isn't*." 

"You had Olivier from *birth*." 

"I —" 

"Was nothing right with him?" 

Porthos frowns. "I didn't *have* you. I didn't know what I was *missing*, love." 

"But. You were missing *something*?" 

"*Yes*. You — I *needed* you before I ever bloody *knew* you. Let me *in*." 

Aramis *pants* — and drops his walls. 

And lowers his head — but Porthos knows this pose. It's one of the ones that mean it's all *right* for Porthos to pull him in — 

*Hold* him — 

"I love you so much, I love you, I *need* you, sometimes I have to stop myself from holding you in my *teeth* when we're *sleeping* —" 

"Nnh —" 

"Sometimes I have to stop myself from holding your cock when you're *pissing* —" 

"*Porthos* —" 

"I just — I just bloody *need* you —" 

"You can do *anything* with me!" 

Porthos growls and crowds Aramis up against the door, bites his ear, bites his hair, tugs it — 

And Aramis grips his shirt and noses in against his throat, just right, just right — 

He'll stay? 

Porthos licks his ear — 

Sniffs him — 

Too many *panicked* scents — 

Too many *hurt* scents — 

Porthos holds him closer, licks him, nips, *holds* — 

"My Porthos — my beautiful Porthos —" 

"'m yours —" 

"You do not —" 

"I'm *yours*." 

"You have all of these *years*, all of this time with no Aramis, no —" 

"And it was *wrong*." 

Aramis pants. 

And pants — 

"Even... when you were happy?" 

"You weren't with me. You weren't at my *side*. I might've been happy, but I wasn't *right*." 

Aramis makes a hurt noise.

"Aramis —" 

"No, no, I — *my* life without *you* was wrong —" 

"Oh, *Aramis* —" 

"You have taught me so much of love," Aramis says, and kisses him hard, sweet, *brief* — 

Porthos kisses him back, kisses him harder — 

Aramis turns out of it — 

"*Aramis* —" 

"*Listen*," Aramis says, and cups Porthos's face. "Everything *about* me is made to *love* you, my Porthos, but I did not *have* you! For fifteen long years!" 

"It's — it's bloody *wrong* —" 

"*Yes*! And — and I think I was *made* wrong —" 

"*No* —" 

"*Wait*," Aramis says, and his voice is sharp, commanding, *harsh* — 

Porthos growls and quiets himself — 

"Oh, my Porthos — it's only this: I think I spent too much time *without* you, without — without *our* family, and all of our love —" 

Porthos pushes *closer* — 

"I think that time *twisted* me, and made me — made me *wrong*, and smaller —" 

"*Never* —" 

"I think I need — help —" 

"What — what *kind* of help?" And Porthos grips Aramis's hips and noses at his ear, his cheek — "What do you need? I'll *give* it to you." 

Aramis smiles ruefully. "I need time to be better for you." 

"You're *perfect* —" 

"But I hurt too much when you love other people —" 

"Not *Daddy* —" 

"Daddy loves *me*, and I — he *needs* me. I... it is not so easy, to move through places where I am not needed." And Aramis looks up into Porthos's eyes. "Do you see?" 

Porthos frowns. 

Aramis smiles ruefully. "Do you consider it strange beyond all reason that someone might not need me...?" 

"*Yes*!" 

Aramis laughs explosively, wraps his arms round Porthos's neck — 

Oh, yes — 

Porthos pulls him closer by the *hips* — 

Licks his mouth — 

"Mm — is Olivier so strange?" 

"He's bloody odd, yeah, but why in particular?" 

Aramis laughs *breathlessly* — 

Porthos smiles. "You think he *doesn't* need you." 

"I know he does not!" 

"You think we weren't talking *about* you." 

Aramis *grunts* — 

And Porthos shares with Aramis the conversation he'd had with Olivier — as gently as he can. The first several times he'd tried things like this, he'd staggered Aramis on his feet and given him terrible headaches — 

But, this time, Aramis just grunts and clings harder, searching behind his eyes and frowning in thought. 

Porthos leaves him to it — 

Porthos licks Aramis's temples — 

Waits — 

Wonders, not for the first time, what kind of orders Aunt Marie-Angelique and Uncle Laurent *give* their servants on weekends like this one — 

Not that there really *has* been a weekend quite like this one — 

Kitos usually just tells everyone to dive for cover when *they* have visitors over. Maybe it's the same?

Porthos licks Aramis more — 

A little more — 

"Nn..." 

Porthos pauses — 

But Aramis doesn't say anything else, or change position. He's still studying. 

There's a question in Porthos's mind about Aramis's jealousy, about the pain Aramis feels, and how much Porthos *can't* fix it, but... there also isn't any question, at all. He'll keep trying. He'll find a way. 

Aramis belongs to him, and he belongs to Aramis, and that's just the way it is, and the way it will always be. 

If he has to keep reassuring Aramis, then he will. 

There's no hardship. 

There's — 

"I." 

"Mm?" Porthos licks Aramis again. 

"You made him *attracted* to me?" 

"You know he already was." 

"No —" 

"Yes." 

Aramis shivers and looks up into Porthos's eyes. "You know this thing?" 

Porthos nods. "I wasn't looking at him closely until you pointed out that I should, love. I was, well, just going with what I'd always known about him, and what I'd always *seen* in him. As opposed to what was there *now*." 

"So... you knew that he was attracted to you? Before he said it?" 

"Yeah, I — it's more than attraction. He loves me." 

Aramis hisses between his teeth — "And you love him, as your *brother* —" 

"And I belong to you." 

Aramis frowns unhappily. 

Porthos tilts his face up. "Nothing was right without you. Nothing *could* be right without you." 

"If... we never met..." 

"That's the scariest thought in my head, love. There's..." Porthos shakes his head. "Me and Daddy, we *would've* made it right, between us. We would've *had* to, just because of the connection between us. It might've taken us longer, and we might've hurt each other along the way, but we *would've* gotten it right. But if you and I hadn't met? I can't take it. I can't take that thought, at all." 

Aramis licks his lips and nods, thoughtfully. 

Porthos lifts his nose — 

"I... you believe Olivier *already* desired me —" 

"I know he did." 

"You *know* he already desired me, and this is why it was so simple for him to feel desire when you — ah. With his *mother*?" 

"Well, first off, I think it's pretty clear that 'desire' and 'mother' go together pretty well for him —" 

Aramis chokes and giggles — 

Porthos *grins* — "Yeah, eh? Will I get more of that sound if I leave you alone with Thomas some more?" 

"Mm, I — do you like it?" 

"I sodding love it —" 

"From me?" 

"*Yes* —" 

"Or from our beautiful little brother?" 

"Uhh..." 

"This is the answer you gave to *Olivier* about it —" 

"I. Uhh..." 

"Is it truly so hard to consider, my Porthos?" And Aramis cocks his head to the side in honest curiosity — and tease. "Or do you fear my wrathful sadness?" 

"Oh, love —" 

"Thomas *is* beautiful, and admires you much..." 

"And — you understand him better?" 

Aramis winces. 

"Maybe... maybe he feels like less of a threat to you?" 

"My Porthos should not aim his rapiers so pointedly when he is using steel," Aramis says, hanging his head *and* wincing — 

"Oh, *love*, no, no, I never want to *hurt* you like *this* —" 

Aramis shivers and squeezes him. "I know," he says, and turns his face in against Porthos's throat. "Perhaps we can say, only, that I would be more *comfortable* with you making love with Thomas." 

"That's fair —" 

Aramis laughs hard and with *pain* — 

"Aramis —" 

"I wonder how comfortable I would feel if I had seen desire in your eyes any of the times I've seen you *look* at him." 

Porthos inhales with a shudder — "He's a gorgeous boy, and I think, maybe, I'll wind up wanting him before it's all said and done —" 

"You will. I'll *make* you do it." 

"Uh. Why?" 

"Because I need that control. Because I am not wise. Because — I don't know." 

"Aramis..." 

Aramis strokes down over Porthos's chest, splays one hand. "I would do anything for you." 

"All you have to do is stay with me." 

"It... doesn't feel that way." 

"I —" 

"All right, boys, I could *feel* you being upset from — let's not talk about what I was doing," *Daddy* says. "What's wrong?" And he's *right* bloody there, in the hall, and, for a moment, the strangest thing is that he's wearing clothes — 

And — not naked —

Daddy snorts. "I'm usually *not*, son." 

"Uh..." 

Aramis licks his *lips* — 

Daddy raises his *eyebrows* — "Boys? What is it? I *know* something is *badly* wrong between the two of you —" 

"Uh — Daddy. We uh. We know why you're here this weekend." 

Daddy rears back — 

Aramis ducks his head. "I... can't help... perhaps you should go back to...?"

"Oh... fuck," Daddy says, wincing and *clawing* through his beard. "Do you — *how* do you —" 

Porthos winces *with* Daddy. "It was Olivier, Daddy —" 

"Shit —" 

"He was listening at your door last night —" 

"*Shit* — and I was too bloody *distracted* to *smell* him." 

"Well, uh. That's pretty reasonable, given what he's told me," Porthos says, and waggles his eyebrows. 

Daddy coughs a *pained* laugh and falls back into a lean against the opposite wall. "How well is he doing keeping it from Thomas?" 

"Thomas already knew." 

"He — *what*?" 

Aramis shrugs. "He is a very observant boy, Daddy." 

Daddy growls and rolls his eyes heavenward for a moment — 

Paces — 

Growls more — "He was protecting *Olivier*." 

"Yeah, Daddy," Porthos says. "And, well, Olivier needed it, to be frank." 

"*Fuck* — he's a mess?" 

"Mostly his breeches, but also his head a bit, yeah." 

Daddy raises his eyebrows. "His breeches —" 

And, right then, Thomas screams. 

The sound doesn't carry *very* well — the plaster is even thicker in the de la Fère manor than it is in their own — but to his and *Daddy's* senses? 

"Uh. Don't panic?" 

"Boys." 

"Definitely do not panic, Daddy," Aramis says. 

Thomas — makes a lot more noise. 

A lot. 

A — lot. 

And then he stops. 

Daddy crosses his arms over his chest and *looks* at them. 

Aramis blushes. 

Porthos's balls sweat a little — and then he stops and remembers. "Wait, Daddy, you were the one bloody *encouraging* Aunt Marie-Angelique to talk about — about *bathing* them together," he says, lowering his voice a little at the end — 

And Daddy flushes hard and *winces* — "Inside. Right now." 

Porthos and Aramis nod — 

Aramis opens the door to their rooms and leads them in — and leads them to the sitting room. 

Aramis takes the divan, leaving plenty of space for Porthos to curl around him, and Daddy — paces. 

And paces — 

And checks the door to make sure it's locked — 

And — 

"What you're saying is that we've *absolutely* precipitated Olivier starting a sexual relationship with his brother this weekend," Daddy says. 

"I would say that they started it *together*, Daddy," Aramis says. "Thomas desired his brother very much." 

"Before now?" 

"Long before now," Aramis says. "He told me, in private, that when Olivier was... teaching him about sex — while their father was on campaign — the desires grew very strong, indeed. He had many fantasies." 

Daddy inhales — and winces again. 

"Daddy? Why doesn't that make you feel any better?" And Porthos twines a hand together with Aramis's — 

Aramis squeezes — 

And Daddy smiles ruefully down at them both. "Laurent told me, not long ago, that he used the way we were all raising you, Porthos, as a model on how to raise *his* children." 

"And?" 

Daddy gives him a quirked look. 

Aramis leans over and kisses his forehead. "I believe Daddy has an unspoken comment about your somewhat non-traditional approaches to family and sexuality, my Porthos." 

Porthos blinks. "So. Wait. Are you thinking you raised me *wrong*?" 

Treville winces *hard*. "I could never denigrate *anything* that gave me *you*, son." 

"Right —" 

"And your mother... your mother never *stopped* us." 

"That, too! You always talk about her like she *would've* stopped you if something was wrong!" 

"But what if she decided that she wanted the wrong thing, son?" And Daddy smiles wryly. 

Porthos grunts — 

"Or, perhaps, the 'wrong' thing. She... there are very few things she said to me more *firmly*, more... more *assiduously* than her assertion that she would raise her child to be just. Like. *Me*." 

"I. Oh." 

Aramis hums. "I approve of the work that she did wholeheartedly." 

Daddy laughs hard. "Aramis." 

"What? You are a good man, and a loving man, and a brave and bold and *beautiful* man. And look what a son you have!" 

Daddy pants — and growls, narrowing his eyes. "I have two sons." 

"Oh — Daddy." 

Daddy prowls across the room to them and drops into a crouch. "I have two sons, and one of them is hurting very badly. Though less so than earlier," Daddy says, and sniffs around them. "Tell me what's wrong." 

Aramis moans. "Daddy..." 

"Tell me. Let me make it right." 

Aramis reaches out and touches Daddy's soft beard with his fingertips — 

Daddy nods — 

And Aramis turns to *him* with a question in his eyes. 

"Go on. Do — please." 

Aramis licks his lips and nods. "Yes, Porthos. Yes, Daddy," he says, and turns back to Daddy. "Porthos... he meant to teach Olivier, to show him how to keep his control around Thomas, since it was clear that he was going to lose it otherwise —" 

"Really." 

"Yes, he —" 

"No, no — not yet for that. Go on. Tell me about *you*." 

Aramis shivers. "I will, Daddy. I — Porthos and Olivier aroused each other, and they masturbated together —" 

"And you grew jealous. *Hurt*." 

Aramis ducks his head. "I. I know Porthos would not... put me aside..." 

"But you don't." 

Aramis winces hard, nearly *flinches* — 

"No, son, that wasn't a strike. It was only a statement of fact, with no judgment. You haven't had enough time and proof and reason to understand that Porthos won't — that *we* won't — put you aside," Daddy says, cupping Aramis's chin and forcing him to meet his eyes. "It's unconscionable that I didn't give that to you before now, and I apologize. I'm now going to rectify that mistake." 

"But — but *how*?" 

"Aramis... my beautiful boy. My perfect, vicious, dangerous, loving, bold, brilliant —" Daddy growls. "Let me start from the beginning." 

Aramis nods once, wide-eyed and hungry — 

Porthos holds him *tight* — 

"You've had a lifetime of *rejection*. You've had a lifetime of being told, in one way or another, that being who you are means that you're unwanted. That you don't *fit*. That you don't *work*. That you cause *trouble*. Correct?" 

"Yes! Yes, precisely! I —" 

"Shh. Consider this: You had not been in our home for two hours before you improved my brother Kitos's health and comfort, and taught us all something we had been looking for for years, and opened a *world* of knowledge to us which had previously been closed." 

"Oh —" 

"You had not even *made* it to our home before you were teaching Porthos lessons none of us were remotely capable of teaching him — but which will stand him in good stead when he's forced to be more of a courtier among the Church fathers than the soldier he is a *built* to be."

"I — of course —" 

"But what of my greed? Should it be *elevated* to need, Aramis? My Porthos, my first son, has been growing into my *friend*, and should any man need more than that? Perhaps not, but it was painfully easy to steal you from Hercule, to take the joy of his retirement away and make it — make *you* — *mine*. 

"And why? One of the witches — Omolara — once told me that we spend our youths auditioning lovers for the roles of our spouses. Our *partners*. And when I look at you, all I can think of are the *countless* mouthy, vicious little boys I've fucked to Hell and back who couldn't hold a candle to your brilliance, your beauty, your... everything." Daddy laughs. "I would've taken you home if I'd gone to Tristan's by myself, little one. I would've strapped you to the back of my horse and kidnapped you if I had to — without a single regret in my heart." 

"Oh. Daddy..." 

"But let's get down to brass tacks." 

"We... have not?" 

"Oh, no. Because we have to think *strategically*, son. We haven't been, at all." 

Aramis swallows and nods. "Please tell me. Please teach me, Daddy." 

Daddy rumbles and strokes Aramis's chin. "Beautiful. *Beautiful*." 

"Yours — please, yours —" 

"I'll never let you go," Daddy says. "And that's where we'll start." 

"Yes, Daddy?" 

"Mm-hm. We've got me, right there in the center of the stage, and I'm gripping you tight with both hands, and I've got one of your ears in my teeth. Why do I let you go?" 

"I. So — so you can hold someone else!" 

"But I can do that while I'm holding you. Can't I? Porthos and Laurent and Kitos and Reynard and Marie-Angelique... that's quite a few people," Daddy says, and laughs. "But I've still got you. Don't I." 

"Yes..." 

"But?" 

"You will spend more time with — with the others! You've only spent so much time with me — I — I'm sorry — " Aramis winces and shakes his head, drawing back — 

Porthos doesn't let him — 

*Daddy* doesn't let him — 

"Shh, son. I know that was hard. Try this: Who fills the space you fill if I let you go?" 

"Any —" 

"Who fills the space *you* fill if I let you go. Stop and think." 

Aramis starts to shake his head — 

And Daddy looks into him. "All right. Who translates for me when I can't quite make Porthos understand what I mean?" 

"I — Reynard? Or..." 

"Who translates for me when I can't quite make Porthos understand what I mean when we're making love?" 

Aramis *grunts* — 

"Who acts as my right hand when *I* must present myself as a courtier among the Church fathers?" 

"I — I will *always* —" 

"Who ensures my legacy?"

"Your — I —" 

"Who is my *son*." 

Aramis tries to drop his head — 

Porthos grips him by the hair — 

Treville grips him by the chin — 

"Nnh —" 

"I didn't offer this to anyone else, Aramis. Only Amina's children, and you." 

"I don't understand *why* —" 

"I *covet* you." 

Aramis *grunts* — 

And Treville shows his teeth. "You're everything I want in a son — everything that *isn't* Porthos, and some of the things that are. *Aramis*. *I will not let you go*. You come with me everywhere. You're in every bedroom with me. You're in every palace *chamber* with me. You're in every stable and every copse of *trees*. The exercise is moot." 

"The — you do not let me go." 

"I don't." 

"I. I wish." 

"Mm?" 

Aramis kisses Daddy's fingertips. "I wish I were bound to you like Porthos. I wish I were blood of your blood. I wish I were — I would be your *slave* if it meant I could have this thing!" 

"Don't — don't say — oh," Daddy says, and moans — 

And they're *all* moaning — 

Porthos can feel something *in* him *changing* — 

Something — 

He *clutches* Aramis — 

He reaches for Daddy — 

Daddy growls and growls and drops huge *paws* to the floor — 

The shift ripples through him again and — 

Again and again and it feels like it's *slamming* into Porthos, like it's *forcing* — 

Aramis is saying something, screaming? 

He can't be hurt, he can't — 

He's — 

Howling. 

Tumbling off the divan — 

Onto chestnut paws. He. 

Oh. 

Daddy snarls and *yanks* himself back to human-form — 

Porthos can feel — 

And Porthos can feel *himself* getting scruffed and yanked, as well — 

He collapses face-first on the divan, shreds of his shirt fluttering around him — 

But Aramis is still on the floor, whining and hurt, confused, so beautiful, chestnut and cream, such long *fur* — 

Porthos climbs down onto the floor a little gingerly — his joints always feel a little like knucklebones in a cup after a shift — and pets Aramis — 

Tugs the torn clothes away — 

Feels around *inside* — Daddy's son. 

Porthos's brother. 

Porthos licks his lips and looks up at Daddy, who's looking down in shock and wonder and not a little fear. "Daddy?" 

"I. I noticed it our first night." 

"Noticed what?" 

"That things said incautiously around you could... *bind*," Daddy says, groaning and pushing a hand back over his hair. 

"What do you mean —" 

"I can't *lie* to you." 

"No, you bloody *can't* —" 

"No, son, I mean I'm *spiritually* and *physically* *incapable* of lying to you. I bound myself that way accidentally that night, because I *said* I couldn't while you were... exerting your will." 

Porthos blinks — and turns back to Aramis, who is settling under his touch. His eyes are big and brown — just a little yellower than usual. 

Daddy sighs. "He keeps finding ways to be beautiful, doesn't he." 

"I — yeah. Daddy, is he — is he your *slave*?" 

"I don't think so. If he were, he would've shifted back to human form when I did that general *pull*. I think he's just... blood of our blood." 

Aramis pants, smiling — 

Daddy crouches and smiles, too, rubbing Aramis's belly. "You'll need to give us the young man back. We still have things to discuss." 

Aramis barks. 

"I know; it's bloody wonderful. Still." 

Aramis croons and looks to Porthos. 

"Uh. Maybe. Maybe a little later, Daddy?" 

Daddy snorts. "So you *don't* want my advice about the Olivier problem?" 

"Oh — shit —" 

And Aramis's ears perk — 

And Daddy laughs hard. "It really does boil down to this: You're all brothers, and brothers need each other. Aramis, your problem is that you haven't — yet — seen exactly how much Olivier needs you. I imagine Thomas already showed you that. Rest assured that Olivier will show you, without any prompting, soon enough. 

"Close quarters will do that, as will necessity, as will the fact that Olivier is a fundamentally honest and pragmatic boy. If he knows that showing his need for you will help you be happier, he will *do* it happily — if with some measure of confusion." 

And Aramis shifts back to human-form, just like that. "But — what *need*?" 

"I daresay the two of you know more about that than I do," Daddy says, and raises an eyebrow. "But I wouldn't be shocked if it involved giving him even more intimacy and pleasure with his brother than what he ever dreamed possible." 

Aramis blushes — 

"We *also* established that Olivier's attracted to Aramis, Daddy." 

Daddy rumbles. "All good, right-thinking men are, son," he says, and looks Aramis over hungrily. "How are you." 

Aramis licks his lips and crawls over to Daddy, and then licks Daddy's chin. "Better." 

"But not completely. That's fair —" 

"I am always well for *you*, Daddy —" 

"Shh, no, don't rush," Daddy says, standing and stripping down. "Let's just hold each other until dinner, mm?" 

Porthos rumbles and stands, as well. "Sounds good to me. Aramis?" 

Aramis sits on his heels and looks up at both of them, licking his lips and studying — "It... is well? I have not harmed us?" 

Porthos can almost see his long brush of a tail sweeping the carpet hesitantly, and that — 

"You didn't, love, no. You're just more of us now, and that can't be anything *but* right. Everything's right with you." 

Daddy rumbles more. "Precisely," he says, as he and Porthos reach down for Aramis. "We'll have to be *careful* what we wish for around Porthos when he's feeling willful, just in case we get something we don't want... but." And he pulls Aramis close and buries his nose in his hair, sniffing and rumbling and growling — 

Porthos gets *right* in on that — 

Aramis opens his mouth — and rumbles, too. 

The scent of his surprise is so sweet, so — 

They *crush* him between him — 

Aramis rumbles and laughs and rumbles more and giggles — 

"My sons," Daddy says, proud and so *happy* — "All is well."


	6. A Fuck Is Definitely In Order

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laurent clears his throat and folds his hands in front of him. "I believe it's time we discuss the changes that this family has recently undergone."

Treville has enough time to warn Laurent and Marie-Angelique about the changes in the family before supper, but...

But what *can* be said when the youngest son arrives for the evening meal covered with bruises, *limping*, and with a *beatific* smile plastered all over his face? 

Olivier doesn't look much better — 

Olivier doesn't *smell* much — 

For fuck's *sake*, Treville had thought Aramis and *Porthos* would be the entertainment this weekend!

(Sorry?) 

(Yes, we are terribly — deeply — we are not sorry,) Aramis says, which is impressive, considering the fact that he's also sniffing the butter like it's Porthos's *cock* — 

Like it's Porthos's *spend*-covered cock — 

(It is only that the butter smells very *good*, Daddy!) 

(It does smell good, Daddy.) 

It's *butter*. It's — wait, is it better than our butter? 

Porthos leans in and sniffs it thoroughly. It — 

Treville sighs. 

And sighs. 

And — 

Laurent pets him, which is *also* impressive, considering the fact that he and Marie-Angelique have been marble figures representing the concepts of 'Shocked' and 'Horrified' for the past twenty minutes, and had only *melted* enough to get themselves seated. 

They've gone right back to it. 

Marie-Angelique, especially, is staring helplessly at the numerous bruises on Thomas's throat. 

(No, Daddy,) Porthos says, with some authority. 

Treville blinks. Wait, what? 

(The butter's no better than ours. Aramis is just fascinated by his new senses.) 

Well. I suppose we can hope he doesn't nose into Laurent's crotch during the soup course — 

Laurent coughs, small and a little bit wheezed. 

Everyone at the table *looks* at him. 

Laurent blanches. 

Steady on, brother. 

(Yes. Right. Yes. I —) 

I believe a 'fuck' would be in order —

(FUCK.) 

Yes — 

Laurent clears his throat and folds his hands in front of him. "I believe it's time we discuss the changes that this family has recently undergone." 

"Before we *pray*?" 

"Yes, Olivier, before we pray, because, at this point, our dinner — which has been roasted and sliced and abused in several hopefully-delicious ways — is more likely to benefit from the prayers we could offer at this moment than we are." 

Aramis looks up from the butter — 

"Yes, Aramis, I know you object. We will discuss other prayers you feel may be helpful at another time," Laurent says. 

Aramis smiles, tongue peeking out slightly — "I thank you!" 

"You're quite welcome," Laurent says, and looks them all over, lingering for a moment on Thomas — 

Thomas raises an eyebrow — 

(Fuck. FUCK. Fuck...) 

Steady, brother, *steady*. 

(Yes, of — of course —) "I've given some thought to *how* we might address the changes in our family, and in what order, but, in the end, my conclusions were murky, at best. In my time as the Captain, I have learned that, in situations where murkiness is far more in abundance than clarity, the best decisions we can make are often the *smallest* ones," he says, and looks specifically to Aramis, Olivier, and Porthos, who all nod thoughtfully. "In that respect, I will now make a *very* small decision and *ask* you boys where *you* would like to begin," Laurent says, and raises an eyebrow. 

Oh, good one. 

(Thank you, brother. I am sweating *profusely*.) 

My sons and I can all smell it. 

(Please don't let them comment.) 

Absolutely not. Yet. 

Aramis licks his lips — and then looks *extremely* surprised. 

Porthos pats his back — and then starts petting him, instead. 

There is no doubt in Treville's mind that Porthos can tell that Aramis needs it. 

Is he the sort of dog who likes being held down and groomed?

He *will* be, whether he is or not, but is he — 

(*Treville*. My sons are *staring* at me.) 

They do that, Laurent. What with those eyes being in their heads, and all. 

(Please don't make me hate you.) 

No promises —

(*Help*.) 

(You only had to ask,) Treville says, leaning forward a bit and folding his hands together. "So, you're fucking." 

"Oh my God." 

Marie-Angelique gurgles quietly — 

Olivier does, too. Fascinating. 

Treville turns to Thomas — 

"Yes, we are, Oncle. I believe Olivier didn't come to the idea until he overheard Maman discussing her fantasies —" 

"Oh, God —" 

"— but I, personally, have desired it for well over two years now." 

Treville smiles. He loves a mouthy lad.

(*Treville* —) 

"Have you, now." 

Thomas lifts his chin — and shows off those bruises even better. "Yes." 

Treville smiles even more broadly. "You wouldn't say you were... influenced unduly by your parents?" 

"Not at all. I feel strongly that they didn't develop their more lustful feelings for the two of us until well after I'd begun desiring Olivier." 

"*Really*." 

Thomas nods once. Haughtily. 

Treville really is grinning — 

(Like you're going to eat him *alive* —) 

I promise I won't? 

(*Treville*.) 

Shh, I'm helping. "When *did* you notice your parents' lusts, Thomas?" 

"It was no one moment," Thomas demurs. "There were certain looks, any number of strained conversations... I would say that I knew for certain that Papa desired us sexually just before Easter last year —" 

"*I* didn't know —" 

"I did," Marie-Angelique says, and pinches the bridge of her nose. 

"Oh, undoubtedly," Treville says. "And when did you know about your mother, son?" 

"By the end of that campaign season. Maman was very... tense, that summer, and spent far less time with us than usual. It was abundantly clear that she had a great deal on her mind." 

This is amazing. 

(That is not the word I would *use*!) 

Shh, Marie-Angelique, all is well, Treville says, and nods to Thomas. "Thank you for those detailed answers, son." 

"You're welcome. Did you have *objections* to Olivier and I beginning a sexual relationship, Oncle?" 

"That would be painfully hypocritical, son. I do *try* to avoid that."

Thomas nods once. "How *do* you feel about it, if I may ask...?" 

Treville grins. "Because you're ready to take on the world for the right to have your brother maul you *exactly* the way he did today?" 

"I'm willing to accept variations on his techniques and approaches —" 

Treville *barks* a laugh — 

Porthos and Aramis snicker *hard* — 

Olivier looks *panicked* — 

And Laurent and Marie-Angelique are positively *glued* to their chairs. 

"— but yes." 

Treville sighs happily. "You can relax, son. Absolutely no one here is going to get in the way of you and your brother fucking like animals." 

Laurent stares at him. 

"I said," Treville says, "absolutely no one here is going to get in the way —" 

"I —" 

"Laurent." 

Laurent puts his face in his hands. 

"Oh, *really*, husband, did you want to keep them to *yourself*?" 

Thomas stares.

"I. Would like to be excused," Olivier says, in a voice that travels through most of an octave. 

Aramis smells like an *angry* erection. 

Porthos smells like an indignant one. 

"Just a moment, everyone," Treville says, and turns to Laurent. 

And *looks* at him. 

(I. Am going to...) 

Yes? 

Laurent drops his hands and sits up. "I'm going to try again," he says, and licks his lips. 

"Please *do*," Marie-Angelique says. 

"I... am always going to look toward the path of self-control *first*, boys." 

Porthos and Aramis look at him like he's mad. 

Thomas raises an eyebrow. 

Olivier looks *ashamed* — 

And Laurent *grips* the table. "I have not... I am *capable* of *recognizing* that self-control is neither always possible nor even *realistic*." 

"*Yes*, husband —" 

"I want to ask you, *all* of you, if we have tried *enough*," Laurent says, and the desperation in his voice is — heartbreaking. 

But — 

"Uncle Laurent..." Porthos shakes his head. "I want to ask *you* *why* you're trying." 

"What?" 

Porthos nods to the table as a whole. "We're all here. We all want the same bloody things — uh. Pardon my language. I just mean — if anything, all of this is bringing us closer *together*. It's helping us get to know each other, and feel each other, and... well. I think it's a good thing." 

Aramis nods. "I think it is *many* good things, Uncle. We still have much to discuss, and perhaps we should move *relatively* slowly, but... I believe we *should* move." 

Laurent swallows — 

Marie-Angelique shivers, all over, and rests a hand on his — 

And squeezes —

And squeezes *harder* — 

Laurent shudders, nods, and turns to his sons. 

"You know how I feel, Papa —" 

"I don't. I don't know how you feel about the desire I — *we* — have for you, son," Laurent says. 

Thomas shivers. "When Olivier was teaching me about sex, while you were on campaign, Papa... I could often hear you speaking through him." 

Laurent growls. "Could you." 

Thomas colours. "I wanted you," he says, and turns to Marie-Angelique. "And I've always wanted more of you, Maman." 

Marie-Angelique blushes deeply, and reaches out to brush Thomas's cheek with her fingertips — 

Thomas leans into the touch immediately, smiling and wriggling — 

And Olivier is staring at him *hungrily*. Well, then. 

The amount of self-control there is... precisely what it should be for a boy that age. 

(Really?) 

You were odd, Laurent. You were very, very odd. 

(In — every way, yes, you *do* keep *trying* to explain that to me, but —) "Olivier..." 

Olivier *jerks* his gaze away from Thomas — 

Swallows and flushes *deeply* — 

"Yes, Father." 

"Your brother is very beautiful." 

"Yes, Father." 

"You've always been equally beautiful to me." 

"No — I —" 

Laurent smiles. "I'm afraid you can't argue with that statement, son — it's entirely subjective, for all that it's built on years of obsessive observation." 

Olivier flushes even darker. "Sir." 

"Oh, son... I'm so proud of both of you." 

Olivier jerks his head up again. "Sir?" 

"Your initiative, your drive, your power, your *passion*..." Laurent growls. "I've wanted to *hold* you." 

"You — you *can* —" 

"But do you *want* it." 

"*Yes*, Sir!" 

Laurent pants — and licks his lips. "And my other touches? My less... ambiguous — 

"I want your *discipline*, Sir!" 

Well, then. 

(I will *geld* you if you —) "Son... I can be... harsh..." 

"I want it!" 

Laurent *winces* with lust. "You'll have it. You'll have everything." 

Treville checks — Marie-Angelique is petting Thomas's mouth. 

That's — 

Well, something is going to get eaten, soon, but it might not actually be food. 

(Well, Daddy, I'm starting to not be hungry for food, per se.) 

Mm. 

(It is true that I am less starved for sustenance —) 

"And. And Mother..." 

Marie-Angelique sighs. "Yes, Olivier?" 

"I've spent... all night and day dreaming of you. Fantasizing — please. I want to *please* you." 

Marie-Angelique makes a hurt noise. "How do you want to —" 

Treville clears his throat. "Just to be clear: Are we telling the servants to put the food away? Or...?" 

Laurent and Marie-Angelique blink — 

Marie-Angelique coughs delicately and rings the *bell* — 

"Mother, I — I'll answer any question you *ask* —" 

"We'll — ah. Save that question, son." 

"Until...?" 

"Until after we wolf our food like starving beasts in the interest of paying lip service to..." Treville runs out of words. "What are we paying lip service to, brother?" 

"Fucked if I know." 

Olivier chokes — 

Marie-Angelique giggles sweetly and hard — 

Aramis and Porthos snicker with their tongues between their teeth — 

And Thomas smiles *promisingly* at *him*... which is something that really does bear thought.


	7. The best of dogs!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's time to make our dispositions."

Aramis resists the urge to lick the gravy from his plate for long, *long* moments — 

(Go on and do it, son. Everyone here knows precisely who — and what — *we* are.) 

Oh. That *we* — 

(Oh, yes. And, while you were staring at that puddle of gravy, Marie-Angelique had the servants roll in the desserts and after-dinner drinks and then dismissed them for the night. We're free.)

That — 

Aramis croons as quietly as possible — 

It is not very quiet, especially as he *is* licking his plate — 

And shifting — 

It's just neater; it means nothing — 

"Oh, what an *attractive* dog!" 

That was Marie-Angelique — 

Her tastes are outré, but it's good to know that he is still beautiful, still — but. 

Does he have his scars in this form? 

Is his fur marred? 

He has to — 

(Keep licking, love. Your flanks aren't scarred when you're a dog.) 

No? 

(No.) 

No one can see? 

(Only your head and hands — a little — are shifted now, and you're still in your clothes —) 

But — you know — 

(I know what you mean, love. No one could see unless you wanted them to.) 

I — I am not ashamed! 

(No —) 

Aramis growls — 

Licks his muzzle — 

Very good gravy, very — 

Daddy is still licking *his* plate — 

Why is beautiful Porthos not — 

(I used the rolls. I forgot that I *could* lick the plate here,) Porthos says, and he is rueful. So rueful. 

Aramis pushes closer, warms him, comforts — 

(Good boy, love you —) 

I love you! 

(All right?) 

Yes. I want more gravy.

Daddy laughs, shifting back to human-form and giving Aramis his half-licked plate — 

Aramis badly, badly wants to shift enough to wag his tail — 

(Remember the kennels, son.) 

I am your son! 

Daddy rumbles and scratches behind Aramis's ear — 

And pets him — 

And scratches his chin — 

And *pets* him! 

"My boy..." 

Yes yes yes — 

Daddy growls. "Lick up that gravy, son. Then we're going to have dessert and discuss... deployment." 

Laurent *coughs* — 

Porthos laughs — 

Marie-Angelique and Thomas hum together — 

And Olivier watches them all, silent and hungry. 

Aramis understands, yes. Yes. 

On multiple levels. He licks the gravy fast, fast — 

Cleans his muzzle — 

And then they all help Marie-Angelique move the plates to the sideboard. She insists that they sit after that, that they allow her to serve them their trifle herself — 

"After all, it won't be long before I'm incapable of even *this*," she says, and shares a *proud* look with Daddy — 

Daddy *strokes* her belly as she walks by — 

Porthos leans in. "*Are* we going to be spending more time —" 

"*Yes*," Laurent says, while Daddy is still in the process of opening his mouth — 

Daddy laughs — "I did say something about moving in..." 

"I think you should," Laurent says. "We're a bit farther from the garrison than you are, but —" 

"You could set up shop in *our* manor," Daddy says, and raises his eyebrows. 

Laurent blinks — 

"I have no objection to this whatsoever," Marie-Angelique says, setting Olivier's trifle in front of him and kissing the top of his head — 

Olivier moans — "Mother, I." 

"Yes?" 

"Would we. Would I." 

She pauses, pressing closer. "It's all right, son. You can ask," she says, and rests her hands on Olivier's shoulders. 

Olivier inhales sharply. "It's — nothing of any consequence. I only wished to know if we would be living there... indefinitely."

Marie-Angelique laughs softly. "We know a *bit* more about the length of pregnancies than that, Olivier." 

Olivier blushes — 

"But it's true that we don't know how long I'll need to recover... that sort of thing. Hmm. 'Indefinitely' isn't a bad word for it," she says, and kisses the top of his head again. 

Olivier blushes *darker* — 

And Marie-Angelique moves to give Thomas *his* trifle. "How do *you* feel about it, darling?" 

"I... wonder how I'll fit in a house full of soldiers," Thomas says ruefully. "But that's not so different —" 

Porthos makes a scoffing noise. "Uncles Kitos and Reynard *love* you, little brother!" 

"I know. But... they don't exactly understand me, do they?" And Thomas cocks his head to the side. 

Porthos blinks — 

And Aramis forces himself into the kennel — 

Forces — 

Everyone is silent, and awkward, and he has to *help* — 

He's a good boy, he will be a good boy, and he has to go into the *kennel* — 

(Only the dog in you, little one. The rest stays *out*.) 

*Oh* — 

Aramis works — 

*Separates* himself — 

The man is *walking* the dog to the kennel — 

And then the shift just *happens*, and he's gasping at his own humanity — 

(The *form* of humanity, love. You'll never be human again.) 

No, no, I'm one of you, one of — but I must help. And Aramis leans forward and spins his spoon over his fingers. "Little brother. I believe you have more ways, now, more *tools* to *make* yourself understood in this world." 

Thomas lifts his chin — and blinks. 

And frowns — 

"I..." 

"If it makes a difference, son," Daddy says, and raises an eyebrow. "You've done an excellent job of making yourself understood to *this* old soldier." 

Thomas blinks again — "I was blunt with you." 

"That you were." 

"I was — demanding and assertive." 

"Very much so." 

Thomas frowns. "I wasn't a very good *courtier*." 

"On the contrary, darling," Marie-Angelique says, and strokes Thomas's hair, and kisses his forehead. "A good courtier is, above all things, *flexible*." 

"Even to the point of...?" 

"The very *best* courtiers will move from the Court to the garrison to the *dockside* with no break in their composure," Marie-Angelique says, and moves back to her own chair. 

"Have you *met* anyone like that, Maman?" 

Marie-Angelique smiles. "Yes. *Me*." 

Daddy *barks* a laugh — 

Laurent lifts Marie-Angelique's hand and kisses the knuckles — 

And they all settle in to eat their desserts. 

Aramis does not lick the cream — 

Much — 

Until he notices Marie-Angelique watching him to see if he *will* lick the cream — 

(You are a *very* beautiful dog, Aramis...) And Marie-Angelique's voice in his mind is shocking, low, sweet, musical, *shocking* — 

He had forgotten!

Daddy laughs hard — 

Laurent hums — 

Marie-Angelique shows her even white teeth — 

And Thomas clears his throat. And raises an eyebrow. 

"Mm. Agreed, son," Daddy says, and dabs at his mouth with his napkin. "You and your brother have been left out of these conversations for too long." 

"Ah. That wasn't blunt." 

"No, but it was obvious enough," Daddy says, and turns to Laurent and Marie-Angelique. "Your sons need to be bitten." 

Marie-Angelique and Laurent look at each other for a moment — and nod. And then Laurent says, "It's their choice when and where they take the bite, though I would ask that they choose *subtle* areas," he says, and *looks* at Olivier and Thomas. 

Olivier blushes — 

Thomas grins and *strokes* the bruises on his throat. 

Marie-Angelique laughs — throatily. She has the attention of everyone just that quickly, but especially of her sons. "Remember, Thomas. A good courtier must be able to adjust his appearance to suit his surroundings at a moment's notice." 

"Oh — oh. I can no longer do that." 

"You most assuredly can't, darling — nor will you be able to for..." She eyes him speculatively. "Two to five weeks, given that your skin is much like mine was at your age." 

"So *long*?" 

"Mm-*hm*. Remember, darling — there are *always* consequences to our actions. I, as an example, will never be able to wear my hair up *again* unless I'm wearing a high-necked dress, because, in the heat of the moment, Laurent and I allowed Treville to bite the back of my neck."

Olivier *grunts* — 

Thomas moans — 

And Aramis finds himself rumbling with Porthos. That is correct. That is *correct* — 

(It most assuredly was, boys.) 

Thomas licks his lips and turns to Daddy. "Oncle..." 

"Yes, son." 

"Is that where... I. I mean. I don't know when you bit Maman so that you could all speak." 

"Just last night, because we were fools who didn't think to do it earlier," Daddy says. 

And — 

It does seem strange. Aramis looks to Porthos — 

Porthos nods — 

"That *isn't* where I bit her to facilitate communication, though. I chose her thigh for that, earlier in the evening, since I knew she'd be able to hide that ninety-nine percent of the time. When I bit her nape, I was fucking her," Daddy says. "Specifically, I was in the process of spending deep inside her, giving her my *seed*, doing my *level* best to *mate* her... and Laurent knew very well that I *needed* to bite her." 

"As did I," Marie-Angelique says, and smiles warmly at Daddy. "There's a reason I haven't worn an off-the-shoulder gown in years." 

"Fuck, that's hot," Porthos says. "Uh. Excuse me." 

Daddy grins — 

And Laurent smiles wryly at Porthos. "We are *not* at the garrison, Porthos." 

"Yes, Sir."

Laurent hums. "We're also not in *any* of my *offices* —" 

"No, Sir, absolutely not," Porthos says, and frowns, mock-judiciously — 

Laurent laughs, smile lines cutting deep — 

He is a handsome man. 

He is... 

He is *not* like the old soldiers who had brightened Aramis's life and world even before he *was* Aramis, but he *is* older, and warm, and strong, and kind, and loving — 

And wise — 

And looking at him. 

Studying Aramis as Aramis is studying *him* — 

"I'd like. To have a conversation with you," Laurent says to him — 

Aramis blushes and doesn't know *why* — 

(Yeah, you do), Porthos says, and grins — 

And Daddy smiles broadly, *approvingly* — 

Daddy — 

(Everything is yours, son. Everything.) 

Aramis croons — 

Laurent narrows his eyes — 

Porthos cups the back of Aramis's neck and starts to pet him again — 

"Boys," Marie-Angelique says, and — stops them. Demands their attention once more, and — 

Aramis had teased his Porthos, but what does he truly know of women? His mother had died when he was young — much younger than Porthos was — and he'd had no sisters. He'd been the pet of many of the women in his home village, but — 

(Hold this thought for me, Aramis, while we wait for Treville to bite my sons,) Marie-Angelique says. (Are you a pet?) 

Aramis *yips* — 

(I bloody *agree*!) And Porthos is rumbling and rumbling beside him — 

Daddy is sighing in *satisfaction* — and standing. "Now, I think," he says, and looks to Thomas and Olivier. "Which of you would like —" 

"Me, sir," Olivier says, and stands, as well. 

Daddy grins. "Always first to the front, our Olivier." 

Olivier blushes. "I want. I want Thomas to see what it's like." 

Thomas's expressions softens *dramatically* — "Olivier..." 

"You should *know*," Olivier says, gruff and solid. 

"Yes, big brother," Thomas says — 

And Olivier shivers, doing his best to cover the motion with that of pulling back his sleeve. 

"Your arm, son? Many people will see —" 

"We have hunting hounds, Uncle. I can say that one was... mad for a bitch," Olivier says. 

The room goes silent. 

For a very long moment. 

And then Marie-Angelique *guffaws* — 

Laurent turns *red* — 

Thomas starts choking and Aramis is doing no *better* — 

Porthos is snickering and *wheezing* — 

And Daddy licks his lips, gazes heavenward, and says — "Amina, you promised me once that you'd haunt me. If you're not here to catch moments like this one, there's no God, at all." And then *he* starts snickering — 

Aramis *wheezes* — 

And Olivier stares into apparent nothingness. "I am going to spend the rest of my life trying to forget I ever said that." 

Daddy prowls around the table to him and claps him on the shoulders. "Strong drink, son. It's your friend and mine —" 

"*Treville*." 

Daddy grins. "You didn't tell me to stop *helping*, Laurent." 

"Oh — God —" 

And Daddy strokes to Olivier's forearm. "Here?" 

"Yes, Uncle." 

"You're certain?" 

"I — please." 

"I'm going to love having you in my soul, son. We all are." 

"*Fuck*, yeah — uh. Sorry." 

Laurent snorts. 

And then Daddy *grips* Olivier's shoulder with one hand, his wrist with the other, shifts his muzzle — 

"That never stops being — please now, Uncle. Please." 

The bite is quick — 

Daddy growls and laps and laps and — 

Olivier winces and *shivers* — and stays absolutely still and quiet, even when Daddy is pulling his teeth out and lapping to heal. 

He — 

Aramis reaches — 

Tries to *find* — 

(Oh.) 

Yes yes — Olivier? Please speak, please show me *yourself*. 

(I — I. I. Now?) 

Yes! Talk to me show me — I apologize. I will leave you your privacy! 

(You really won't,) Porthos says. 

*Porthos*! 

Porthos snorts. (Brother, it's all right. Just... be open. We're all here. We're not going to judge you for *anything*.) 

Silence — 

*Silence* — 

(I.) 

Yes? Yes?

And Aramis feels like a little boy half-climbing into the window of the pretty girl he's spying on, but — 

(That is a *fascinating* metaphor, Aramis,) Olivier says, and his entire being is *quirked* — 

I thank you! TELL ME WHAT YOU'RE THINKING. 

(I... feel like the rotted plank standing between you all and an ocean of filth and confusion.) 

Aramis blinks — 

(Eh,) Porthos says. (That's just normal when you're our age.) 

(I. Aramis?) 

(Always listen to what beautiful Porthos says is normal. It will make you feel much better about yourself!) 

(See! No, hey, wait —) 

And Aramis pulls out of the soul-space to lick his Porthos, and pet him, and soothe him — 

"I still *heard* you —" 

"There is nothing wrong with you!" 

Porthos looks at him. 

"You are perfect in *every* way, my beautiful Porthos. You are simply not... made for *this* world." He pets, he soothes, he *pets* — 

"*You* think I'm mad as a *hatter*." 

"No!" 

Daddy comes back round the table and licks Porthos's temples. "You *are* mad, son —" 

"Daddy!" 

"Aramis is round the twist, too —" 

"*Daddy*!"

"Let's not even talk about me and your Uncles —" 

"And your Aunt!" And Marie-Angelique twirls her spoon in the air — 

"And your fine, beautiful bitch of an Aunt —" 

Marie-Angelique *splutters* — 

"And Olivier's been on a different sphere altogether since *birth*," Daddy says — 

"I can't argue with this in the least," Olivier says, smiling and showing his scars to Thomas, who strokes them with eager curiosity — 

"And Thomas — nobody knows where Thomas is." 

"Right *here*." 

"Did you hear something, lads? A mouse, maybe?" 

"Oncle!" 

"Something... scratching —" 

Thomas throws a balled-up napkin at Daddy — his aim is *quite* good, being as he's de la Fère — 

And Daddy grins at him. "Where will *you* be bitten, beautiful boy?"

Thomas *grunts* — 

Daddy winks — 

And Thomas smiles *slowly* and opens his *trousers*. 

Right at the table. 

Well. 

Daddy laughs hard. "Look, Laurent, it's the fantasy you were telling us about earlier." 

Laurent *coughs* — 

Thomas's eyes are *wide* — 

And then *everyone* turns to Laurent. 

"Well, brother? Shall I continue being helpful for just a little bit longer? Or will you —" 

"I. I've dreamed of watching you perform in countless ways, Thomas." 

"Oh — Papa —" 

"I've dreamed of feeding you... sweets, little things, little treats, while you touched yourself." 

"Oh. *Oh*. Would you like me to —" 

"I — you must be *bitten*."

"*Papa*. I want to make you *happy*," Thomas says, demanding as his mother and — 

Laurent growls. "Then take your slippers off." 

"Oh — and my socks?" 

"No. Yes — no." 

"No?" 

"No. Leave them on. Put your feet — on the table." 

"Oh, Papa — " 

"Open yourself — spread your legs more. Oh... good boy." 

"Thank you, Papa. Should I —" 

"Arch up. Push your trousers and breeches down further — Olivier, help your brother." 

Olivier grunts and obeys *immediately* — 

Marie-Angelique *moans* — 

"You're both so *beautiful*," Laurent says, and grips the table — 

Thomas is gripping his own lean *thighs* — 

His cock is jutting hard and *needily* from its nest of dark-blond curls — 

Olivier is kneeling beside Thomas and *staring* at his cock so hungrily — 

Panting and gripping at the *chair* — 

"Brother," Laurent says, quietly. 

"Yes," Daddy says. 

"Bite him. Don't — don't touch his cock. Yet." 

Daddy growls. "Yes, Laurent," he says, and moves, and kneels on Thomas's other side — 

Brushes Thomas's hands aside gently — 

Grips his *thigh* — 

Shifts — 

*Bites* Thomas's outer thigh — 

Thomas cries out, shuddering in place as Olivier pets him and presses their foreheads together — 

Daddy growls and growls and laps and growls more and *laps* more — 

"Oh — oh, I *feel* —" 

(But do you feel us, little brother?) And Porthos is reaching — 

Aramis can feel him doing it — 

Thomas stiffens and *stares* — 

(Please please please I want Olivier give me Olivier TOO!) 

(Here I'm here I'm — I'm sorry —) 

(No don't apologize never apologize for being IN me I want you to fuck me I want you to STAY WITH ME —) 

(Oh. Oh... brother...) 

(NEVER LEAVE —) 

And then Olivier kisses Thomas hard, messily, *needily* — 

Daddy pulls back slowly — 

Thomas's cock twitches — 

Jerks again — 

*Again* — 

Thomas doesn't seem to know what to do with his *hands* — until he clutches at Olivier's shirt. 

The kiss gets harder, then, more brutal — 

More messy and *loud* — 

"Olivier," Laurent says in a quiet voice, "Enough." 

Olivier grunts and *yanks* himself back — 

Daddy is sitting back on his heels and licking his whole *face* — 

Thomas is *whimpering* — 

Marie-Angelique is resting one hand on her heaving breasts and staring almost *fixedly* — "I... want." 

"Wife?" 

Marie-Angelique winces with lusts. "That was a lie. I need Thomas right now, Laurent." 

Thomas whimpers and *groans* — 

Daddy rumbles and rolls his head on his neck. "Your sons are delicious." 

Laurent growls — "It's time to make our dispositions." 

"Agreed," Marie-Angelique says, and turns to *Aramis* — "Give me your sons, as well, brother." 

Aramis blinks — 

Porthos grips himself through his trousers — 

Treville grins. "Really, now," he says, standing and moving to where Olivier is kneeling. "And you, brother?" he asks Laurent. 

"The two of us will be taking Olivier in hand, brother." 

"*HNH* —" 

"That sounds *entirely* well to me," Daddy says, and cups the back of Olivier's neck, urging him to stand. "Boys?" 

Thomas swallows with a click and stares across the table at him and Porthos — 

Porthos licks his lips — 

(Little brother,) Aramis says, and leans in to lick Porthos's cheek. 

Porthos rumbles — 

(Little brother, we will be very good to you...) 

(That's *right*,) Porthos says — 

And Olivier is staring at Thomas almost *desperately* — 

Thomas blinks — and turns to Olivier — 

"No, Thomas," Marie-Angelique says. "To me now." 

Thomas moans and grips at his own thighs again — 

His feet are still on the *table* — 

Laurent stands and moves behind Thomas's chair. He curls his fingers over the top of it and stares down at his son — 

And breathes — 

And breathes — 

Thomas shivers and *whimpers* — 

Arches — 

"Be still, Thomas," Marie-Angelique says — 

And Thomas drops and gasps — "Yes, Maman!" 

*She* gasps — "Oh. Good boy. Show your father how you hold your cock when you want him to touch you." 

Oh — 

"*Fuck*," Porthos says — 

"Yes, Maman," Thomas says, and cups his cock lightly, *curiously* — 

Turns it to and fro — 

Laurent *growls* — 

Marie-Angelique smiles. "Is he examining it *very* thoroughly, darling?" 

"Yes, Maman," Thomas says, and continues moving and stroking it lightly, *testingly* — 

"Does he want to see just how you react to each and every... stimulus...?" 

Thomas moans — 

Laurent is squeezing the chair so hard the wood *creaks* — 

"Yes, *please*, Maman!" 

Marie-Angelique hums, eyes glittering. "Get your fingertips wet with your fluids, Thomas. You're going to let your Father taste you, as is proper." 

Thomas bucks — "Yes, Maman!" 

She purrs. "Remember to be as still as you can... yes, there's a good boy. Nice and slick. Reach up." 

"Yes, Maman — *oh* —" 

And Laurent is gripping Thomas's wrist just that fast — 

Just that *hard* — 

Daddy rumbles. "Do you want your father to hold you that tightly, Olivier?" 

"Yes. Please." 

"Do you want him to bruise you?" 

"Extensively." 

"Do you want him to *taste* you the way he's — hmm. Devouring your little brother?" 

"I. I don't know if I'm that palatable —" 

"You are," Daddy says, and licks Olivier's ear. "Trust me." 

"I —" 

"Shh." 

And Laurent has all four of Thomas's fingers in his mouth, thumb splayed against his bearded chin as he hums and growls and *sucks* — 

Thomas's eyes are *wide* — 

His cock is leaking *steadily* — 

And then Laurent pulls off and *bites* Thomas's thumb — 

"Ahn — *oh* —- oh, Papa —" 

And Laurent sucks *hard*, once, before pulling off. "Good boy." 

Thomas *pants* — "Thank you, Papa!" 

"Attend your mother well tonight." 

"I will! I promise!" 

And then Laurent stops in front of Daddy and Olivier — 

He shares a long and silent *look* with Daddy which speaks volumes about the years they've known each other — 

Daddy releases Olivier and steps *back* — 

And Laurent presses two fingers beneath Olivier's chin, tilting it up. When he's not wearing the clothes of the Captain, it can be easy to forget just how *large* Laurent is. He's no Kitos, but he's taller than Daddy by at least five inches, and he is by no means *thin*. 

He is, at present, making Olivier look very small... 

He is making Olivier look very happy to be small. 

"Are you going to give yourself to us tonight, Olivier?" 

"Always, Sir." 

"Will you follow every order with faith, obedience, and alacrity?" 

"*Yes*, Sir." 

Laurent sighs, then, and strokes Olivier's face with the back of his hand. 

Olivier moans — 

Shivers and shudders and *moans* — 

"To *attention*, son." 

"*Yes*, Sir," Olivier says, and obeys. 

"Better. Much better," Laurent says, and licks his lips again. "We're taking you to... your rooms, for now."

"Oh — yes, Sir." 

"Do you have objections, son?" 

"No, Sir —" 

"Do *not* lie." 

Olivier grunts — 

Flushes *deeply* — 

"I — I wanted to go to your rooms." 

Laurent growls — and cuts himself off. "You will. But not... first."

Olivier makes a *desperate* sound — 

"Do you *understand*, son." 

"This. Will not be only once." 

"No," Laurent says. "It most assuredly will *not*. Do you *accept*." 

"*Yes*, Sir, *please*, Sir —" 

"Shh. Kiss your mother goodnight." 

"Yes, Sir —" 

"Cup her breast while you're doing so." 

Olivier *trips* — 

Laurent steadies him — 

"I apologize, Sir!" 

"All is well, son. Go." 

Olivier crosses the room immediately, doing his best to manage a martial stride with an obviously *painful* erection — 

(I don't think we'd do any better, love.) 

I believe we would also be whining, my beautiful Porthos. 

(Yeah, that sounds about right —) 

And Marie-Angelique tilts her mouth up for the kiss — not her cheek, and that still isn't — 

Particularly — 

And then Olivier kisses her *precisely* the way he had kissed Thomas — 

Hard and almost *violently* — 

Marie-Angelique makes a *pleased* sound and pushes a hand into his thick hair — 

He moans — 

His hand *spasms* as he reaches for her breast — 

He hesitates — 

"*Do it*," Laurent snaps — 

And Olivier *grips* her breast — 

She arches and *moans* — 

And Daddy sighs. "That's your son, all right." 

Laurent hums with pleasure. "Locate the nipple, and rub it with your thumb, Olivier." 

Olivier nods into the kiss, squeezes Marie-Angelique's breast once more — 

Marie-Angelique moans *more* — 

(Such a good boy...) 

Olivier goes *rigid* — 

"Remember your *tasks*, son." 

And Olivier nods again, stops squeezing, and *seeks*, frowning in concentration — 

"Do *not* stop kissing." 

Olivier nods again and *bites* his mother — 

Marie-Angelique makes a high-pitched noise of shocked pleasure — 

And then Olivier's hand *stills* for a moment before he starts rubbing cautiously with his thumb. 

"Yes, wife...?

(Oh, yes...) 

"Excellent work, son. You'll note that her pleasure is great for touches there even with less force, but I promise that we *will* be experimenting with the myriad ways your mother can and should be touched there over time. Break the kiss." 

Olivier kisses her slightly more softly and pulls *back* — 

"Very good. Say goodnight to your brothers. You may not touch Thomas." 

Olivier moans. "May I. May I ask why, Sir?" 

Laurent smiles. "You took away our opportunity to see the two of you find your pleasure for the first time, son. *Some* degree of punishment is in order." 

Olivier *grunts* — "Yes, Sir. That's fair, Sir." 

Laurent cocks his head to the side, narrowing his eyes. "Yes. Yes, it is. Now. You have orders to obey." 

Olivier bows to his brother, who still has his *feet* on the table. "Goodnight, Thomas." 

Thomas moans. "Goodnight, Olivier!" 

Olivier shivers and turns to them. "Goodnight, Porthos. Goodnight, Aramis. I hope to spend more time in conversation with both of you soon." 

Porthos licks most of his face — 

Aramis *pants* — 

They manage to bid him goodnight. 

"Good boy," Laurent says, and reaches for Olivier. "Come." 

"Yes, Sir," Olivier says, and moves back in range — 

Laurent *grips* the back of his neck — 

And they walk out. 

Daddy turns and bows to them all with a flourish — 

Marie-Angelique giggles — 

And then Daddy follows. 

After a moment, Marie-Angelique takes a deep breath, stands, and collects the dessert dishes. 

Aramis and Porthos start to stand together — 

"No, you boys stay *right* there for a moment," she says. "This is helping me think." 

"Oh, yes?" And Aramis settles back down next to his Porthos. "Perhaps there is something else we can do to be of assistance?"

Marie-Angelique hums and puts the dishes on the cart, then rolls the cart toward the kitchens and out of the way and moves back to the table. "You're both such beautiful dogs..."

Porthos raises an eyebrow. "You've hardly ever seen my dog, Aunt. I mean —" 

She holds up a hand. "Believe me when I says that every occasion was memorable," she says, and sits down again. "I've had exactly two lovers over the past sixteen years, boys, and one of them is your father. We did not hold back from welcoming the dog into our bedroom for very long." 

They nod — 

Aramis checks on Thomas — he still looks stunned and needy. He will not be ready for *talk* until after he spends. And this...

Aramis is young, but he was young at a brothel before he was young in manor houses. 

How Thomas will spend is, perhaps, what they are negotiating right this instant. 

"Aunt," Aramis says. "Would you like us to shift for Thomas?" 

Porthos rumbles — 

Thomas *bucks* — 

And Marie-Angelique sighs and strokes Thomas's sweaty curls. "He has so much to learn, boys." 

"We uh." Porthos licks his *face*. "We've a lot to learn, too, Aunt." 

Marie-Angelique smiles, showing her sharpest teeth. "I think we can do something about that. But... first." And she nods to Thomas. 

"Absolutely," Porthos says, and stands — 

And Aramis stands — 

And they strip — 

Quickly, quickly — 

Aramis feels himself wanting to *change* — 

Wanting to — to *shift* — 

(I'm holding you, love; get your clothes off first.) 

You can hold me? 

(Yeah, I think... I don't know. Maybe it's the will thing? We'll keep an eye on it.) 

Yes, Porthos! 

(What are you boys talking about?) 

"Sorry, Aunt," Porthos says, and shakes himself a little when he's naked. "Something a bit weird happened when Aramis changed to become like me and Daddy and we're still trying to figure it out." 

Marie-Angelique nods thoughtfully. "Is it dangerous?" 

"We don't *think* so, but... I don't think you want *both* of us to be dogs for Thomas. *That's* dangerous." 

Marie-Angelique shivers. "I... you're right. I wasn't thinking. It's fraught enough when your father is... well." 

"Yeah, eh? Let Aramis be the dog. I'll control him." 

"You'll... be the Master of Hounds?" 

"Or one Hound," Porthos says, and turns to grin at Aramis. "Go on, love. I know you want the shift." 

"Yes — yes, I —" 

"Let yourself go." 

"Porthos, I want you to enjoy yourself, *too*!" 

"I *will*. I'm going to have *you* in my hands, doing everything I *want* you to do," Porthos says, and cups Aramis's face. "Don't worry. Everything is right with you." 

"Oh —" 

"Everything."

Aramis moans and nods and — releases his hold on himself — 

And he's too low, too — 

Everything is up— 

He gets up!

And the pup is across the table, all spread out and — Aramis is *scruffed*! He waits. He *waits* — 

It's Porthos!

He *waits*, because it's Porthos, and he belongs to Porthos always. Always. 

Porthos is talking! Porthos is saying — 

He doesn't know, he doesn't know, it's hard to concentrate with all the good scents, but he can feel, and it's important, and it's — 

He has to be careful? He's always careful, he'll be more careful. He has to be careful with the *pup*, and that's right, that's proper, that's important — 

He licks Porthos all over, licks his sweat, licks his cock — 

Porthos laughs and moans and pushes him away!

That's not right!

But not now? 

Not — 

Oh, it's the pup's turn now! And he can be careful! Careful, careful, and he's so spread, so tangy in the air, so musky — 

Oh, no, oh, no, don't close your legs, pup, don't close — 

Aramis licks his knees, nips — 

The woman and Porthos make sounds, words, Aramis knows they're words — 

The pup opens his legs!

Good pup, good pup! 

Aramis dives in and laps and laps, licks slow, licks carefully, licks up all the delicious, all for him, all for him — 

Porthos is rumbling — he must be a good dog! Aramis wags and wags and noses and snuffles down past the pup's little balls, so tight, not fuzzy enough — 

The pup is whining and shaking and yelling so loud, so loud — 

The woman is moaning — 

Aramis snuffles *down* — 

So musky here, so rich, so — 

He licks — 

The pup bucks and screams and screams — 

Aramis scrabbles *back* — 

Whines — 

Porthos pets him, soothes him — 

Makes words — 

Makes *words* — 

It's all right? It's not bad? 

The woman is taking the pup out of the chair — 

The woman is bending the pup over the table — 

He's — 

"— there you are, darling, you're so flushed, so beautiful..." 

And the return of words is like a — a *thunderclap*, the return of comprehension — 

*Is* — 

"— all right?" 

"Oh, yes, Porthos, I think so," Marie-Angelique says. "He just never felt *anything* like that before, did you, darling." 

"N-n-no, Maman!" 

And Marie-Angelique strokes the pup, pets — 

Porthos is doing the same thing to him — 

"Is Aramis well?" 

"He took a little shock when Thomas got scared, but..." And Porthos cups the back of his neck and strokes him more firmly. "You're all right, aren't you, love?" 

I didn't hurt the pup? *Thomas*. 

"You didn't hurt him. You made him feel better than he could *handle* right away."

Aramis licks his muzzle. 

And licks his muzzle again — 

I want to do it again... 

Thomas whimpers — 

"Shh, darling, shh, it's all right. No one is going to hurt you," Marie-Angelique says —

"It — it would be easier with a little pain, Maman," Thomas says.

And Aramis feels the *pause* — 

It makes him want to inch *closer* — 

Porthos is holding him too *tightly* — 

"Did Olivier hurt you very much today, darling...?" 

"He — he *squeezed* me, and *gripped* me — he seemed to not be able to let me *go*." 

Marie-Angelique hums. "And you liked that very much." 

Thomas blushes. "It made me feel very wanted, Maman." 

"I think we can work with that," Porthos says, and releases him! 

Aramis jumps down off the table — 

Moves to nose at Thomas, at his soft, soft arse, so downy, so — 

"Yes, we *can*," Marie-Angelique says, and spreads Thomas *wide* — 

Thomas *shouts* — 

"And let's get a hold of these wrists," Porthos says — 

"Oh — oh, *brother* —" 

"You're not going anywhere, little brother —" 

"You just have to *take* it, darling," Marie-Angelique says — 

"Please! Oh, please, *yes*!" 

Aramis snuffles and licks, sniffs and shoves his tongue *in* — 

Thomas *screams* — 

"Now, just relax, Aramis, you know that's a good sound," Porthos says — 

Yes, yes he does, he's a good dog, a *good* dog, and he'll make the pup feel *right*. 

He licks in, *in* — 

He nuzzles and snuffles and curls his tongue, *lashes* his tongue — 

Thomas *howls* — 

Oh, good pup, good *pup*, and he's a good dog to make the pup feel this good, he'll always be good, he'll lick and lick — 

"I'm — I'm so *wet*!" 

"That's just how you need to be, little brother," Porthos says — 

"We wouldn't get you wet if you weren't supposed to be that way, darling," Marie-Angelique says, and spreads the pup *wider* — 

So shiny and *tight* — 

The pup whimpers and whines and *sobs* — 

Screams — 

So good, so good, so musky-sweet good for him — 

"Please please will you fuck me? Will you — will you fuck me?" 

Yes! Yes, *please*, and Aramis's knot is so heavy, so *hot* — 

"We won't be letting the *dog* fuck you, darling —" 

Aramis whines and whines and licks more, licks better, he can be *good* — 

"Probably not the best idea for your first time," Porthos says, and Porthos is supposed to love him! 

(I do love you. I love you so much that I'm not going to let you hurt someone you care about.) 

But I am a good dog! The — the best of dogs! 

(Yes, you are, love. And the best of dogs would still do *damage* to a virgin arse, and when you're the best of *young men*, you'll know that again.) 

Aramis whines and — 

Maybe if he licks more? 

Better? 

Thrusts deeper with his tongue?

Thomas howls and howls and *howls*, and yes, Aramis will do this thing, do it and do it and do it, and then Porthos will understand, and let him mount the pup, show him his place, his proper place — 

"Oh — ohn — *ohn* —" 

"Do you like those thoughts, darling?" 

"Yes, Maman, *yes* —" 

"Do you want to be fucked by a dog? *Debased* by a dog?" 

"By — by *all* the dogs!" 

"Shit —" And Porthos laughs nervously — "You uh — you have to watch that..." 

"Oh. Your *teeth* are shifting..." 

"Yeah, Aunt Marie-Angelique, 'm sorry — fuck — pull it *back* —" 

"To the *kennels*, Porthos." 

"Yeah — *yeah* —" 

"To. The. *Kennels*." 

"Fuck — that's got it. Thanks, Aunt Marie-Angelique. Now to get little brother sorted — oh, your eyes are so *wide*, Thomas..." 

"You — you almost —" 

"Shh, don't —" 

"I — nnh — I — I arouse you that *much*?" 

Porthos growls *loudly* — "Yeah, you do. And as soon as your mum says it's all right, I'm going to make you spend your *brains* out." 

And the pup cries out *loud* — 

Clenches around Aramis's tongue so *tightly* — 

Aramis fucks him with his tongue, fucks him and fucks him and — 

"Oh... fuck, I love it when they can't keep their head up..." 

"I imagine you and Treville leave Aramis overcome *quite* often..." 

"As often as bloody *possible*." 

Marie-Angelique giggles. "Is it too much for you, darling...?" 

"I — nuh — *oh* — *OHN* —" 

And the pup *collapses* on the table, flat to the table, so easy to *mount* — 

(Don't you pull out, Aramis!) 

Porthos! 

(Make him *spend*.) 

Make him loose? Make him open? He can do this! He is the best of dogs!

Aramis snuffles and yips, *growls* into the pup's arse like Daddy — 

The pup *groans* — 

Yes yes — 

Aramis growls and growls, so fearsomely he growls! 

He scrapes his *teeth* like Daddy — 

The pup *screams* — 

His scents deepen, sweeten — oh — 

Oh, oh — 

"Oh, *yeah* —" 

And the pup bucks and bucks and spends, spattering the rugs beneath the table again and again — 

So good — 

Good *pup*! 

Aramis keeps *growling* — 

Porthos growls, too! 

The pup wails and spurts *more* — 

"Oh, darling, good boy, good *boy*..." 

The pup flexes open around him — 

Aramis can — 

(You can't mount.) 

Porthos does not love him, Porthos has never loved him, Porthos will take in some other dog, who can lift their arse higher, and — 

"Oh my God, pull back and get *up* here."

Aramis croons mournfully — 

Into the pup's arse — 

The pup gurgles and pushes up onto his toes — 

And Marie-Angelique giggles. "I have a treat for you, Aramis..." 

A treat? 

For him? 

"Oh, *yeah*," Porthos says. "Something we decided on while you weren't paying *attention*..." 

But what! 

Aramis pulls back and leaps up onto the table, careful of the cloth as best as he can be — 

He licks the tears from the pup's cheeks — 

Not his eyes, that's dangerous, he's careful, very careful — 

"Good boy," Porthos says, and shakes his ruff. "Come on, lie down on your side." 

I'm very *hard*, Porthos! 

"This'll help." 

Oh oh oh — Aramis lies down on his side — 

And Marie-Angelique smiles covetously at his cock. "Look how beautiful you are," she says, and cups his *knot*! 

Aramis croons and croons — 

Pushes into her *hand* — 

She squeezes so *perfectly* — 

Aramis *barks* — 

"As an aside," Porthos says, and pets Aramis's flank, "you can do that to my knot whenever you *like*." 

Marie-Angelique giggles. "Thank you *very* much, Porthos. I *will* be taking you up on that," she says, and turns to the pup, who is standing up very shakily, like a fawn. "There you are, darling. Can you pull your chair close?" 

"Yes, Maman! I — I feel very... messy..." 

"You aren't, though. Aramis left your arse quite clean. Dogs *always* do." 

Yes, this is so. 

The pup blushes to the roots of his hair and nods, sitting down — 

Blushes more *deeply* — 

And pulls his chair close. 

"Good boy," Marie-Angelique says, and tugs Aramis's cock closer to the pup's face. "Now it's time for you to thank Aramis properly for what he did for you." 

"Oh. Oh..." 

"Yes, darling?" 

The pup licks his lips. "His cock is very... different..." 

"It's a dog's cock," Marie-Angelique says, matter-of-factly. "Your Uncle and his sons all have them, even when they're in human form." 

"It — they look different... sheathed," the pup says, and swallows. 

Aramis croons hungrily — 

"Are you intimidated, little brother?" And Porthos's voice is rumbling and gentle. "It *does* taste a little different, but, in the end, a cock's a cock." 

The pup looks up. "Yes?" 

"Oh, yeah. And we won't let you finish this way your first time —" 

PORTHOS!

"— *because* Aramis doesn't have enough control in this form. But he should be allowed to feel your little mouth, don't you think?" 

The pup smiles. "Yes." 

Marie-Angelique beams. "Good boy. Now, watch me," she says, leaning in and licking softly — 

Oh, softly — 

Oh oh oh — Aramis croons helplessly, *loudly* — 

Aramis *pumps* at Marie-Angelique's mouth, wants more, wants *more* — 

"Easy, Aramis, take your treat like a good boy," Porthos says. 

A good boy? He is a good boy! He is, he is — 

But Marie-Angelique feels perfect, feels so — 

And then she *sucks* — 

Right on the *tip* — 

Porthos is holding him by the *hips* — 

Aramis barks and barks and — she pulls back! She takes her wonderful mouth *away*! 

"Do you see, darling?" 

"Oh — yes, Maman!" 

"Do you think you can do what I did?" 

"Yes, Maman!" 

Marie-Angelique smiles at the pup and licks her red lips. "Remember to start slowly. Even if — hmm." 

"Maman?" 

"*Did* you suck Olivier's cock?" 

"Only a little, Maman. He spent very quickly once I put my mouth on his cock." 

"Oh — I have no doubt of that. Your mouth is *lovely*, darling." 

The pup smiles. "Thank you, Maman." 

"But yes, start slowly. The tastes will be stronger and — mm. More *intense*." 

"Yes, Maman," the pup says, leaning in and immediately licking — 

Aramis whuffs to encourage — 

Wags his tail to *encourage* — 

The pup smiles at *him*! 

Aramis whuffs and croons and whuffs — 

The pup giggles and licks and licks and licks — 

"Oh, *darling*..." 

"There's a boy," Porthos says, gripping Aramis's hips *tight* — 

Aramis's cock *jerks* — 

Spatters the pup's shocked *face* — 

"Oh —" 

"Let me just get that for you, darling," Marie-Angelique says, cupping and *gripping* Aramis by the *knot* again — 

The pup *moans* — "Thank you, Maman!" 

"You're *very* welcome. See where he's leaked even more?" 

"Yes, Maman, I'll clean him!" 

"*Good* boy," she says — 

And the pup licks and slurps and — 

Oh, all over, all *over*, and Aramis is barking, yipping, crooning and growling, and he can't stop *fighting* against the grip Porthos has on him — 

He knows it's wrong — 

He doesn't want to be a *bad* dog — 

(Shh, it's all right, I've got you...) 

I'm your good dog always? 

(Best dog, *best* dog.) 

And that's wonderful, that's — 

That's perfect, the best thing, and it makes it all right that his paws are pressed into the softness of Marie-Angelique's side, that his knot is in her hand, that she's squeezing-squeezing-*pumping* — 

That the pup is *slurping* — 

Opening wide and —

Taking him — 

*Taking* — 

"*Suck*, little brother. Suck that cock — oh. Oh, fuck, that's perfect, that's so — don't go any further. I can't hold Aramis if you do —" 

The pup makes a *hungry* noise — 

"I know, but you *need* me to hold him, need me to — oh, little brother, you were *made* to have a cock in your mouth..." 

"A *dog* cock, Porthos?" 

"Well, I try not to discriminate —" 

Marie-Angelique giggles hard and pumps *harder* — 

Aramis *shoves* with his paws — he doesn't mean to! He just — 

He can't — 

"Shh, shh, 's all right, love. We all know you're going to spend soon. Aren't you." 

Yes yes yes! 

"Best dog. You *earned* your treat, didn't you," Porthos says. 

Please! PLEASE! 

Porthos growls — "Aunt Marie-Angelique..." 

"Yes, I *see*," Marie-Angelique says and squeezes him *hard* — 

Aramis *yips* — 

"Put your hand on his knot, darling... yes... yes, squeeze him so very hard... what a good boy you are —" 

Aramis *howls* — 

"Now let me have his cock —" 

"Oh, Maman, I didn't *want* to give it up!" 

"We *promise* to *all* give you more chances, little brother," Porthos says — 

The pup giggles and squeezes — 

Marie-Angelique gulps and gulps and *swallows* him — 

"Oh, Aramis, Aramis — squeeze him *harder*, Thomas, hard as you can —" 

"*Yes*, Porthos!"

And Aramis howls, he knows he's howling, he knows he's — 

He can't hear, he can't *see* — 

Everything is the white-hot *pleasure* in his knot in his cock — 

In his balls when *Porthos* squeezes, his big hand, so strong, his Porthos, his *Porthos*! 

(Good dog, *best* dog, come on, spend for me, spend right down Aunt Marie-Angelique's *throat* —) 

Aramis barks and flexes and throbs and *pulses*, pulses into her — 

Right into her *throat*, just like Porthos *said* — 

He smells her arousal *deepen* — 

He fills her. 

He fills her. 

When he's done spending, the urgency to mount goes away, which isn't surprising, but he still wants to be touched, even though he's sensitive, which is. Of course, Porthos and Daddy always want more touch after spending — 

And they must have what they wish — 

From him, always from him — 

And. 

Aramis croons confusedly. 

Marie-Angelique hums around his cock, questioning — 

Aramis *knows* she is questioning — 

(Yeah, you're starting to want to be back in human-form again.) 

Oh... 

(I have no objections,) Marie-Angelique says, and doesn't remove her mouth from his cock, at all — 

Thomas — *not* 'the pup' — still has his hand on Aramis's *knot* — 

And. 

Aramis needs no help to walk his dog back to the kennels... 

To clip on the collar and lead and walk him back — 

All the way — 

And he is a sprawl of himself on the dining room *table*, naked and human enough — 

(You've a lot more control than we did at this point, you know,) Porthos says. 

I have you, Aramis says, and sits up, smiling into Porthos's eyes — 

Marie-Angelique pulls back — 

Porthos kisses him hard — 

Growls — for the tastes of Thomas? — and kisses him *harder* — 

"Oh — oh, that's very dirty," Thomas says — 

(Yeah, it is,) Porthos says, pulling Aramis close with one hand and using the other to swipe drying slick from Thomas's messy face — 

He pushes it into Aramis's *mouth* — 

He licks it *out* of Aramis's mouth — 

Aramis moans and takes it, takes it, and when Porthos grips him with both hands — 

When Porthos kisses him down to the table and grinds him *down* — 

*Down* — 

Please, I am yours! 

And then Porthos pulls back and licks his lips. "Yeah. You are," he says, and darts in to bite Aramis's throat — 

Aramis groans — 

Porthos *holds* the bite — 

And Marie-Angelique hums thoughtfully. "Would you say Olivier behaved that way with you, darling?" 

"Oh, I... yes? More gripping, though." 

"More... desperation?" 

"Yes, Maman. In retrospect, I believe he felt, for some reason, that I would say *no* to something. *Anything*." 

Marie-Angelique laughs with warm amusement. "You never would for *Olivier*." 

"*No*, Maman!"

"Good boy." 

Porthos holds the bite for a little bit longer — 

"We'll find ways to convince him that you'll never, ever say no... while also convincing him to never, ever stop hurting you." 

"Thank you, Maman!" 

And then Porthos *sucks* Aramis's perpetually-bruised throat — 

Aramis moans and *writhes* beneath his Porthos — 

Porthos growls and sucks hard kisses down Aramis's chest to his cock, which he sniffs thoroughly. "I didn't realize even spit could smell *female*." 

Marie-Angelique splutters. "*Porthos*. Should I apologize?" 

"Not a bit of it," he says, kneeling up and grinning. "I'd like to examine this phenomenon more closely!" 

Marie-Angelique leans back in her chair and smiles *filthily*. "Oh, nephew. I think it's time for you to come lift my skirts."


	8. Let's fill in some of those... gaps.

And Porthos isn't sure if those are the best words he's heard all day — there are a lot of contenders — but they're definitely up there. 

He pauses to check on Aramis — 

Who smiles and nods to Thomas. "I *must* hold our little brother."

"All *right*, then," Porthos says, and jumps off the table and onto the floor, crawling right on over on his hands and knees — 

"Oh. Porthos." 

"Yeah, Aunt Marie-Angelique?" And Porthos stops in front of her chair, hands on his thighs and nose up — "You smell incredible. Really... rich," he says, and that was more of a growl. 

She makes a little hurt sound. "I could... sit on the table —" 

"Nah, just scoot forward in your chair. That's more comfortable for women, yeah? That's what I've heard, anyway." 

Aunt Marie-Angelique gives him a *quirked* look — 

Olivier really *does* get it from her — 

"Or — correct me if I'm wrong? I've got gaps in my education!" 

She splutters and scoots and — tugs on her skirts. 

And grins. 

Porthos grins back and *flips* her skirts up — 

She *giggles* — 

Thomas *gasps* — 

And Aramis hums — "You have not seen *this* view in quite some time, mm, little brother?" 

"I —" 

Aunt Marie-Angelique *caws*. "He hasn't seen this view since he was on his way *out*."

Porthos's jaw drops — 

Aramis *chokes* — 

*Thomas* splutters — 

And Aunt Marie-Angelique caws even more. "Oh, I — mm. That's one thing I don't get tired of, darling Thomas." 

"Yes, Maman?" 

"*Shocking* these tough old soldiers with my dainty little mouth. Well, *these* soldiers aren't so hoary, but mark my words: Once a soldier has decided you're a delicate bloom, he will *never* expect crudity to drop from your petals. *Use* that. *Mercilessly*." 

"Yes, Maman!" 

"Now go sit in Aramis's lap." 

"He's not wearing *trousers* —" 

"You're going to *love* that, darling," Aunt Marie-Angelique says, and spreads her legs wide. 

The scents of her are — 

So — 

Porthos blinks and breathes *deep* — 

And tries to breathe *deeper* — 

And licks his lips and leans *in* — 

She stops him with two fingers on his forehead. 

"Uh?" 

"Do you know what you're *looking* at, nephew?" 

"Um. A cunny?" 

She *snorts*. 

Porthos lets his shifted tongue loll. 

"And that *would* be a reasonable tactic to get what you want with a woman," Aunt Marie-Angelique says, and *taps* his forehead with her fingertips, "but I've had your *father* for sixteen years, and he's been *competent* at this act for the vast majority of that time." 

Porthos retracts his tongue and frowns. "Not all of it?" 

"*No*." 

"*Really*?" 

"Oh, Porthos," she says, and strokes his curls. "Pleasing a woman is a *bit* more challenging than pleasing a man — in some ways." 

Porthos's bollocks start to sweat — 

And then Aramis strokes him inside — (I have faith in you, my Porthos — and in our Aunt. She will teach you well.) 

Porthos takes *another* deep breath — and nods. "In which ways, Aunt?" 

"Look here," she says, and taps her little — 

"That's your pleasure-button, yeah?" 

"Very good. Do you know how to touch it?" 

"Um. Some of the men have had advice..." 

"Oh, yes...?" And Aunt Marie-Angelique smiles sharply. "Which do you think was best?" 

Porthos can *feel* that there's a right answer here — 

He can all but *smell* it — 

And then Thomas moans, high and sweet — 

Porthos starts to turn — 

Aunt Marie-Angelique catches him by the jaw and turns him *right* back around. 

"Um. Your turn now?" 

She shows her teeth and nods. 

"Yes, Aunt Marie-Angelique. Anything you say. I guess I always thought Blaireau had the right of it. He's one of the younger commissioned men, and he gets shouted down a lot by the other men, but he said something about starting slow and gentle, and only picking up speed and force as, you know, she *responded* to you with her noises and the like. I mean, that sounds right, doesn't it?" 

Aunt Marie-Angelique makes a balancing-the-scales expression, not unlike a fruit vendor in the market — 

"Aunt —" 

And then she laughs at him. 

"No? It's wrong?" 

"Porthos." 

"Yeah?" 

"When you set out to make love to another boy, how do you touch his *cock*?" 

"I — you know, not too hard, but I see what he likes, you know, ask him —" 

"Stop." 

"What — did I just. Say. Oh." 

Aunt Marie-Angelique smiles. 

"So... when it comes to women's pleasure-buttons, I should always ask?" 

She shrugs. "It's come to my attention that any *number* of women will demand that you touch them first and make an awful hash of things before you ask —" 

Porthos and Aramis cough *together* — 

Thomas giggles — 

"— but I don't see any harm in touching gently, and then finding out what she likes. I imagine you have any number of marvelously attractive ways to ask that question," she says, and licks her teeth. 

"I do try. What about everything else, then?" 

She tugs on her outer lips — "Not very sensitive — they can take a very hard spanking." 

"Oh — *fuck* —" 

"Or, for that matter, the ramming thrusts of a motivated... young man," she says, and smiles — 

Porthos's cock *spasms* — "Um. Please. Please? Though I'm trying to imagine having a *conversation* with Olivier after fucking you —" 

"Why should it be any different from the fact that he'll be having a conversation with *you* after being mounted by your father...?"

"Oh. Shit." 

"*Oh* — that is. Mm." Aramis rumbles. "Do you truly think Uncle Laurent will allow this thing? He seemed quite... possessive of Olivier." 

"All the more reason, boys," Aunt Marie-Angelique says. "He'll want your father to mount *both* Olivier and Thomas before he has them for himself —" 

Thomas *whimpers* — 

"— because he'll want to study your father's technique, and learn from his *control*. Not to mention the fact that he'll be using your father to *stretch* Olivier and Thomas." 

"Oh — Maman!" 

"Does that worry you, darling? It's not improper, I promise." 

"It — it isn't?"

"Not at all. You've seen *infinitesimally* little of this, darling, but your father is a *powerfully* forceful man. You must never forget that he is not only a soldier, but a *commander* of soldiers. His lovemaking is not for the faint of heart." 

"Oh. No?" 

Aunt-Marie Angelique laughs hungrily... and begins stroking her pleasure-button idly with two fingers. 

It's — 

She — 

Just like *that*. 

Porthos *tries* to look at her face — 

At *just* her face — 

But she almost immediately starts *leaking* from her — her *cunt* — 

He's staring *hard* — 

"Porthos..." 

"Oh — *fuck* — sorry —" He *jerks* his head up — 

Marie-Angelique grins. "You may look *precisely* where you wish, nephew. You all were." 

"Oh. I — oh —" 

"But *you* have the most adorable blush," she says, and strokes over his upper lip — which is confusing until he breathes — 

And smells her — 

He growls and licks and licks and *licks* — 

She *purrs* — 

"She tastes *good*, my Porthos?" 

"Perfect, *delicious* — *fuck* — please more —" 

"*Wait*." 

Porthos grunts — and sits on his heels. 

"Good boy," Aunt Marie-Angelique says, and starts touching herself again, licks her lips — "Now, as I was saying, darling..." 

"Y-yes, Maman?" 

"Aramis, *fuck* his cleft, if you please." 

"With *great* pleasure, Aunt." 

"Oh — oh — oh, that feels — *ahn*!" 

"Did the tip of his strange, strange cock nudge the rim of your hole, darling?" 

"Yes, Maman! And — *AHN* — oh — again — *OHN* —" 

"You like that very much..." 

"Yes, please —" 

"If your father were to attempt that... he'd make you bleed. Even were you stretched beforehand." 

"What? What?" 

"The tease is too much for him. His passions overtake him. I *beg* him for it for just that reason... sometimes." 

Porthos groans — 

Aramis *grunts* — 

"Oh — oh, Maman!" 

She's leaking again — still. 

She's touching herself in — in firm-looking little circles, *low* on the button, and just off to the right side — 

And Porthos is never going to forget that if he lives to be a hundred bloody years old. 

"Your *father*," Aunt Marie-Angelique says, "has never — mm. Never *truly* learned control when it comes to lovemaking. His power, his force, his — nn — needs..." She shakes her head. "I refused to let him." 

"But *why*, Maman? Didn't he... hurt you?" 

"Oh, yes, many times. *And* I didn't — didn't *enjoy* every last one of those aches and pains and scrapes and bruises and scars." 

"Oh, my — I find I am looking forward to my conversation with your husband more and more, Aunt!" 

Aunt Marie-Angelique laughs hard and just a little breathlessly. "Of course you are, Aramis. You're a fine and — and *wonderful* boy." 

"I thank you!" 

"Keep fucking my son's cleft. Hold his *hips*." 

"*Yes*, Aunt!" 

"Oh — *oh* —" 

"Please, Aunt Marie-Angelique, let *me* make you spend —" 

"Did you — did you think I only planned to spend *once*, nephew?" 

Porthos's jaw drops — 

And Aunt Marie-Angelique laughs hard and sweet and *hungry*, the laughs becoming moans as she points her toes and spreads her legs wider — "No — no, I can't wait," she says, "Porthos, *shove* your tongue up my cunt." 

"Oh, God, fuck, *thank* —" 

"*Now*!" 

Porthos *obeys*, lengthening it as far as he can — 

"Ahn! Oh! *Ohn*, yours is *thicker*!" 

"Mmph, mm-hm," Porthos says, and holds her inner thighs, holds her wide — 

"Oh — *yes* — yes, *tighter*!" 

He growls and *grips* her — 

Digs *in* with his fingers — 

"Oh, your big *hands* — such — a growing *boy* — *UNH* — " 

Porthos blushes and *thrusts* with his tongue, thrusts again, tries to think of something else to do — 

Nuzzle? 

Her fingers are in the *way*. But maybe that's on purpose? 

He nuzzles her *fingers*, licks, laps, *tastes* — 

"Oh, Porthos — Porthos — yes, *that* —" 

"If I may — nnh — ask —" 

"Aramis — wait your *turn* —" 

"*Yes*, bella —" 

"Bella? *Really*?" 

"I speak only — only *truth* —" 

And Thomas is moaning, *moaning* — 

"Just — keep bouncing my son on your *lap* —" 

"*Happily* —" 

And Porthos tries shoving his arms *under* her heavy thighs — 

"*Oh*!" 

Lifting and *squeezing* — 

"Oh — *fuck* —" 

Pulling her *in* — 

"Porthos, *yes*!" 

And she's still not giving him her pleasure-button — he's going to have to *earn* that, he thinks — but she's touching herself harder, faster, scratching his *nose* every few passes, panting and *gurgling* — 

Porthos thrusts *hard* with his tongue — 

"Ah — oh — oh, *fuck* —" 

"Maman! Maman, *I* want to please you!" 

She *bucks*, fingers slipping — 

Porthos *resists* the urge to nuzzle — 

"Oh, good boys, such good boys, all of you — I want — I *need*," and now she's rubbing at herself hard, hard, almost *scrubbing* at herself with her fingers, and Porthos wonders if calluses would be better or worse, if coming at it from the *other* side would ever be nicer, if she has a little callus on *that* side that he just can't see the way *he* already has thicker skin on some parts of his sheath — 

He wants to know! 

He wants to know bloody *everything*, and then he wants to *lick* it, taste it, *suck* — 

"*Now*! Oh, now!" 

And he doesn't — 

He doesn't understand — 

"Suck my cunt!" 

Oh *shit* — 

Porthos mouths and kisses and sucks *hard* kisses — 

She *shrieks* — 

She fucks his *face* — 

"Oh, *Maman*!" 

It goes on and on and *on* — 

She grips him by the hair with both hands and *slams* against his face — 

Just — 

Over and *over* — 

Porthos keeps sucking, keeps kissing, holds his breath and tries to be *competent* — 

She's grunting and *grinding* — 

His nose is *crushed* — 

It's like a face-fucking from *Daddy* — 

And then she slumps *back* — 

Porthos gasps through his *wet* nose — 

All he can smell and taste and feel is *her* — 

His scalp feels *welted* — 

And Aunt-Marie-Angelique is purring. 

And purring. 

And... wow. 

Porthos starts to pull back — 

She grips his hair harder. 

He stays. 

He stays. 

Thomas is making *jagged* noises, sharp and sweet and *high* as Aramis grunts for his *fuck* — 

Porthos wants to *see* that — 

(I promise — I promise to show you some other *time*, my Porthos — oh, his arse is so sweet —) 

You'd know — 

Aramis laughs explosively — (Oh — you're making me clutch Thomas too hard, too —) 

"Don't let go!" 

"I will *not*! I will *mark* your hole with my spend so that all know I have — I have been here *first* —" 

Thomas cries *out* — 

Aunt Marie-Angelique *clenches* around him *twice* — 

Leaks so *much* — 

Porthos slurps it up — 

She *yanks* his hair — "That was *not* a no," she says, and laughs. 

Porthos snickers messily — 

She squirms and hoots and *kicks* — "Porthos!" 

He laps and laps and snickers more and *slurps* more, messy as he can — 

She gurgles and gasps and *writhes* — 

"Ah — *fuck*," Aramis says — 

Thomas *screams* — 

And the scents of Thomas's spend mingle with Aunt Marie-Angelique's — 

"I need — I need —" 

"Oh — oh, Aramis!" 

What did you do? 

(I turned him *round* so I could fuck against his slick little *cock*.) And Aramis is grunting like a beast, wordless and starved and *snarling* — 

Porthos eases up a bit so Aunt Marie-Angelique can *watch* — 

"Oh — oh, he's holding my darling so *tightly*..." 

She moans and clenches and starts *touching* herself again — 

Porthos growls and starts *fucking* her — 

"Slowly, nephew, slowly — oh, yes — *oh* —" 

And Aramis gasps — 

And Thomas whimpers — "Please! Please, it's just like *Olivier*!" 

Aunt Marie-Angelique makes a *croaking* sound, fingers splaying on her sex — 

She *presses* against herself — 

Porthos keeps fucking her *slowly* — 

Aunt Marie-Angelique shudders hard and *bounces* on the chair, whimpers, *whimpers* — 

(I must —) And Aramis snarls again — 

Thomas *screams* — 

And Aramis's muffled groans fill the air with the scents of *his* spend. Porthos is incapable of not breathing them in, drinking them in, fuck, all but *bathing* in them — 

(I am *yours*.) 

Yeah, *yeah* — wanna *roll* in you — 

(I understand this much better now!) 

Porthos coughs laughter into Aunt Marie-Angelique's *cunt* — 

She *swats* him — 

He *behaves* — 

"Bad *form*, nephew — at that moment," she says, rubbing her pleasure-button and moaning. 

(I'll be good!) 

"Yes, you *will*. But not down there," she says, and pushes him away. 

Porthos pulls his tongue in and draws back. "Aw, I *am* sorry, Aunt —" 

"Shh, that was hardly a sin, at all," she says, and grins. "I'm just ready for *more*." 

"Oh — *oh*." 

She stands, then, shamelessly shaky on her legs — 

Porthos scrambles up to steady her — 

"Bend me over the table, nephew." 

"Oh. Just. Like." 

"Yes," she says, and grins. 

"Oh, fuck," Porthos says, and follows *orders*. 

She grunts when she *hits* — 

"Fuck fuck — was that too —" 

"That was *perfect*. Now my *skirts*." 

He flips them up, and — and — smacks her *arse*. 

"*Ahn* — oh, *Porthos*. Again!" 

"Aunt! I!" Porthos groans and *spanks* her, spanks her the way he spanks *Aramis*, all over her arse and just — 

Oh, but she *jiggles*, and she's so *pale*, and she makes such high-pitched noises and such low *groans* and — 

And this is going to drive him *mad* — 

This — 

Aramis is smiling more like a wolf than a dog and Thomas is staring *slack*-jawed — 

And every smack *echoes* in the high-ceilinged dining room — 

"Oh, *yes*, Porthos, *discipline* me," she says, gasping and *laughing* — 

"Aunt — *Aunt Marie-Angelique*!" 

"More*!" 

Porthos growls and spanks her *harder* — 

She *screams* — 

She spreads her *legs*, exposing — 

Exposing her *lips* — 

And Porthos can follow those orders, too. He spanks her there, not so hard, not so *hard* — 

He *gives* it to her — 

She *squeals* — 

"Oh, *God*, Aunt!" 

"Yes, *please*! 

But he can't, he can't keep this up, his skin feels tight and his mind is going and his knot is *throbbing* — 

He can't — 

The smacks are so *loud* — 

He *can't*. "Aunt Marie-Angelique, I — I *need* —" 

"Fuck me! Fuck me *now*!" 

"But don't you need oil? I licked all your juices —" 

She *hoots* again — "Reach down and *feel*, nephew." 

"I —" He does — and she's slick — *wet* — to the thighs — 

To the *knees* — 

"Oh my *God*," Porthos says, gripping his cock and aiming carefully, *carefully*, because there's more than one hole and there's only one right answer and oh fuck so *slick*! 

So slick and so *easy* — 

So slick and easy and warm and soft and he's crooning, shoving, shoving, and that's his knot, he has to go *easy* with his knot, *fuck* — "I'm *sorry*!" 

"Give it to me! Give me all of it!" 

"Oh *shit*," Porthos says, and does his best to spread her, and tries, *tries* to be a little bit gentle, but all he's doing is *forcing* his way in, *battering* her with his huge sodding knot — 

"Oh, *nephew*!" 

"I'm so sorry I'm so —" 

"Keep *going*!" 

"You're so — you're so — oh please let me call you Maman, too! Please let me! Please! *Please*!" And he's shoving in, *in*, and he's almost there, he's almost — 

She's gurgling — 

She can't talk — 

She can't bloody *breathe* — 

He can't — "*Please*!" And it feels like his knot *falls* in, he's all the way in, and he's got her, so perfect, he can *grip* her chest, her breasts, so *soft* — 

"P-Porthos —" 

"*Please*!" But he's already rutting, already *taking*, fucking his Aunt hard, and he shouldn't want this, shouldn't want *more*, but — 

But he's inside — 

He's never had this — 

He's *inside*!

"*Porthos*. *Son*." 

Porthos snarls and *claws* at her breasts through her dress, tearing it hopelessly — 

She gasps — 

"Maman, *Maman*," he says, and he bites her all over her covered shoulders, bites hard, ruts harder, *fucks* harder, fucks her right up onto her *toes* — 

"Oh, God, *yes*, son, *yes*, I'll take you all, you're all *mine*!" 

And Aramis gasps — 

Thomas moans — "You're my *brothers*!" 

And Porthos snarls, groans, tries to *reach* for Olivier, give this to him, give *everything* to him — 

He can *feel* that Uncle Laurent is holding Olivier a little apart, saving this for *later* — 

He can feel that Uncle Laurent is losing his *mind* — 

He can feel that *Daddy* is losing *his* mind — 

And then Aunt — *Maman* clenches, clenches so tight, so sweet, so unlike *anything* Porthos has ever felt, and he can't feel anything but her, smell her, taste her, bite her *hard* — 

"*Yes*, son! Stretch me wide!" 

It shocks a *howl* out of him, makes him flex, makes him *flatten* her to the table and shove and shove and — 

Oh, grind her down like he does Aramis, grind her in, make her feel his *weight*, his *power* — 

She groans out her *air* — 

She *whines* — 

Not enough sound, not enough — 

He pushes up and holds her down by one shoulder and her pretty blonde hair — 

She gasps — and *screams* when he changes the angle of his fuck, beating at the table and — "Yes! *Yes*!" 

It's perfect, thrilling, mind-destroying that he can make Maman this happy, this pleased, this — 

He's *inside* her!

He gives it to her harder, so much *harder* , because she's been telling them what she likes all along, she's been telling them what she can take, she's been *teaching* them — 

Oh, Maman — 

(Good — *son*!) But the sounds coming out of her mouth are howls, desperate and loud, one after another after *another* — 

She's clenching around him *randomly* — 

It's so hard to keep up his *rhythm* — and *then* Porthos realizes that Maman is spending again, that he's *made* her spend, that he's *given* her that — 

He groans — 

His knot flexes *hard* — 

He can't *see* — 

And then he's gripping both of Maman's wrists and pounding her hard, hard, *hard* as he spends, as he spurts, as his — 

Oh, his knot is already *swelling*! 

He — 

Oh, fuck, it's already — 

He groans and spurts *more* — 

Maman whimpers and dances on her *feet* — 

He kicks her feet wide helplessly and ruts *harder*, *harder* — 

And feels her spend *again*, small and hot and *explosive*, in the moments before she slumps to the table and. 

Lets him use her. 

Lets him — 

He does just that. 

Maman.

Maman always takes care. 

*Eventually*, Porthos can stop rutting. 

*Eventually*, he can reach for one of the chairs that he hadn't summarily kicked *over*. 

He drags it round behind him. 

Then he wraps his arms round Maman and holds her *tight* while he gingerly sits them down. It's not the most comfortable arrangement, but it's a bit better than being bent over a table — 

Maman laughs tiredly — "I've had worse, boys." 

"You deserve the best, Maman," Thomas says, and sits on the table in front of them. That cloth is going to have to be burnt, but — 

"You really do," Porthos says, and kisses the back of her neck. Daddy's scars. 

She shivers — 

"I agree with this wholeheartedly," Aramis says, and settles on the floor at their feet. 

She *hums*. "I believe *you* know, Aramis, that, sometimes, the very best thing *is* the very 'worst' thing." 

"Oh — yes, this is so... Maman?" 

Maman purrs and reaches for Aramis — 

He kisses her fingertips — 

"All of you are mine. I'll never let you go." 

Porthos shivers and holds her tight — 

"Maman, how could the worst thing be the best thing? Is this related to the pleasure you take in Papa's imperfect lovemaking?"

"*Perfectly* imperfect lovemaking, darling," she says, and strokes his cheeks with her fingertips — 

He leans in and *sucks* — 

"Oh — naughty thing." 

Thomas giggles. 

"Hmm. Well. Think of it this way: There were *some* moments of the lovemaking you've experienced today that you did *not* enjoy, yes?" 

"Oh — yes, but the displeasure and discomfort were mild and —" 

"But *present*, yes?" 

"Yes, but —" 

"You wouldn't change anything?" 

"*Nothing*, Maman — oh. Oh. I *see*. And you're saying I may come to enjoy lovemaking with even more extreme discomfort and displeasure?" 

"I believe it *quite* likely, darling. Think of the *thrill* you felt when you realized that I wouldn't *immediately* respond to the *fear* you felt of Aramis in dog-form by asking Porthos to call him *back*." 

"*Oh*." 

"Think of the... hmm... *rush* of sensation every time you've pressed on one of the *numerous* bruises Olivier has left on your perfect skin." 

"Yes, I *see*. I want to experiment with this —" 

"Extensively, I know," Maman says. "But you must take care. You have your duties to consider." 

Thomas sighs. "Yes, Maman. Perhaps I will focus my experiments on the more emotional concerns." 

"That would be wise, and I'm quite certain we would *all* be willing to assist...?" 

"Most assuredly, Maman," Aramis says, and his eyes gleam gold.

"*Always*, Maman," Porthos says, and nuzzles into her hair.

He's starting to wonder how and where everyone will be sleeping tonight, and if they can possibly get away with one big pile like they sometimes do at home — 

"One... big...? With Kitos and Reynard, as well?" 

Aramis grins sharply. "Oh, yes, Maman. Porthos always takes the middle." 

"*You* always take the *bottom*." 

"This is only proper, my Porthos." 

Maman laughs. "How do your maids even *tolerate* you?" 

"I do sometimes wonder about that," Porthos says. 

"*I* *asked* them this," Aramis says. "They told me that Uncle Kitos listens to all of their complaints with sympathy and kindness, and fucks like a *demon*, besides." 

"*Oh*. Not Reynard?" 

"*He* is not home often enough, and mostly has eyes only *for* Uncle Kitos and Daddy." 

"Well. *That's* true enough," Maman says. "I... am really not altogether certain how I feel about sleeping on the floor in a great pile, boys." 

"It's really pretty comfortable with enough blankets and bolsters —" 

"For *dogs* and *soldiers*, Porthos. *Not* for aging mothers, nor, I suspect, for young courtiers." 

Thomas opens his mouth — 

"Though I am not, of course, forbidding you from trying, my darling." 

Thomas blushes. 

Maman laughs, low and warm. "Perhaps I'll have my mattress in the middle of you all." 

Porthos inhales her — "Yes. Please." 

"Please, Maman!" 

"Please." 

She hums again. "My boys."


	9. For the love of God, never have only two people in your bedroom.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Treville holds Laurent's lead when it comes to young Olivier.

Olivier wants to burn every moment of this night onto his mind, wants to chisel it into the stone of his *existence*, but he's already — 

He can barely remember any of the steps which took them from the dining room to here. His rooms, and he's been set to neatening them. They're never especially disordered, but he has to admit that, after this afternoon, his bedroom is — 

Had *been*; he's almost done, and Father and Uncle Treville had seemed fascinated by the mess — 

Or. 

By the scents? 

Olivier strokes his duvet — 

"Did you have a *question*, son." 

Oh — Father. 

Olivier thinks he can feel him in his *skin* now, in every possible place he *can* be touched, and at least some of the places he can't. 

The snap of his command is an... imperative. Olivier licks his lips. "I. I was wondering —" 

"Answer *faster*, son." 

"Yes, Sir," Olivier says, and moves to neaten the other side of the bed. "I was wondering if you and Uncle Treville were attracted to the *scents* of these rooms." 

Uncle Treville barks a laugh — 

Father hums — "I suppose I *wasn't* clear about that," he says, and crosses his arms over his chest. "Stand there," he says, and nods to roughly the center of the room. 

Thomas has often stood there to *start* performances for Olivier while Olivier has lounged on the bed, and — 

And Olivier is sweating, even as he moves to obey orders. 

His father doesn't lounge, but he does *stroke* the duvet — in nearly the same place Olivier had — and sit, and remove his shoes and socks — 

He folds his hands together between his knees in an almost — *almost* — casual pose, and it all seems designed to let Olivier know that he's going to be here for quite some time, that he's taken up residence, that — 

That Olivier's rooms are no longer solely his own, if only for the length of... this. 

Olivier shivers and licks his lips. 

Looks to Uncle Treville, who's leaning casually — *possessively* — against the wall opposite the foot of the bed — 

His expression is *admiring* — 

Openly — 

"Look to me, Olivier," Father says. 

"Yes, Sir," Olivier says, and obeys — 

Father has folded his hands together — 

Father is smiling so *wryly* — 

"The scents of these rooms are precisely why we're here." 

Olivier blinks — 

Uncle Treville rumbles, in that way he does when something is pleasing him, amusing him — "We want to *wallow* in these scents, son."

"Oh. I... are they... they're arousing to you." 

"They're the scents of my beautiful sons' pleasure," Father says. "They can be nothing less, and they are, in fact, quite a bit more." 

"More, Sir?" 

Father smiles sharply. "They're maddening. They're *driving*. They're *enraging*... in multiple ways, all of which are terribly unworthy. But I have never been dishonest with you, Olivier, and I will not begin now. Ask me about my rage." 

Olivier pants. "Yes, Sir. Please tell me about your rage, Sir." 

Father wets his lips. "Good boy. Unbeknownst to me — but known quite well to your Mother and Uncle, who often know me far better than I know myself — I had developed both desires and detailed fantasies about introducing you and Thomas to sexuality." 

"Oh —" 

"Shh. Not yet." 

"Yes, Sir. I —" 

"Shh." 

Olivier quiets himself and nods, flushing hard. 

"I hid these fantasies from myself. I hid even the desires from myself — long after I had stopped hiding my other desires for you and Thomas from myself. They were simply too much for me to accept. Too... demanding." 

"Grasping, brother?" 

"A much better word for it, brother, yes," Father says, and nods to Uncle Treville, who is still lounging comfortably against the wall. "I could accept — to a certain extent — my lusts for the two of you. I could *not* accept lusts which were... all-encompassing." 

"Or all-consuming," Uncle Treville says. 

Father's eyes almost seem to glitter — "Your Uncle knows me — and my hungers — very well, indeed." 

"Your Uncle has lived for those hungers, son. Long before I knew the full extent of them. A part of me sensed them, I think," Uncle Treville says, smiling and licking his lips. "Your father's desires scourge the earth." 

Olivier shudders — 

Father colours *deeply* — 

He almost looks *embarrassed* — 

But how could that be? 

"Ask the question we can see in your eyes, son." 

Olivier takes a breath — "You seem... embarrassed." 

"I am." 

"I would like to know why." 

Father raises an eyebrow. "I would think it would be obvious, son." 

Olivier flushes hard — 

And Uncle Treville laughs. "Not even *remotely*, brother." 

"Oh — no?" 

Uncle Treville shakes his head and laughs more. 

"You — you need not — treat me softly —" 

"Oh, we won't," Uncle Treville says, and moves until he's leaning against the wall with both shoulders back instead of just one — "But we also won't pretend that your father is an open book," he says, and raises an eyebrow. 

"Hm. I suppose we shouldn't, at that," Father says, and turns back to Olivier. "I'm a forty-seven-year-old man, son. It has pleased both your mother and uncle to keep me somewhat... untrained in terms of the control I can and cannot wield in matters of sexuality, but it does leave me lost, and chagrinned, and embarrassed from time to time." 

"Oh — oh," Olivier says, and that is comprehensible, but — 

"Does that still seem wrong, son?" And this time, Father sounds only curious. 

"I... to a certain extent, Sir." 

"Do tell." 

"Yes, Sir. But — I don't want to postpone your pleasures, sir —" 

"Discussing sexuality with you — sexuality specific to *us* — is *one* of my pleasures, son." 

"And mine," Uncle Treville says, and winks. 

"Oh. Yes, Sir." 

Father raises an eyebrow. "Did you not find it so with Thomas?" 

"We... we spoke very little, as these things go, Sir." 

Father hums. "You were hungry for him." 

"Yes, Sir —" 

"He was hungry for *you*." 

"Yes. Yes, Sir." 

"He took your... every touch?" 

Olivier moans — "Yes, Sir —" 

"I'm going to be distracted if I continue this line of questioning any further —"

Uncle Treville clears his throat — 

"Yes? Ah. When I say I'm going to be 'distracted', son, what I mean is that I'm going to need to touch you, almost certainly roughly." 

"Oh." Olivier's knees are — weak. "I would like that, Sir." 

"Good. We have business to attend to first," Father says, and spreads his legs that much wider — 

He's so *hard* — 

He's — "Ask your earlier question." 

*What* question? "I... I'm afraid I don't —" 

Uncle Treville barks a laugh. "You were confused by your father getting wound up about how passionate he is." 

"Oh — *yes*. I would think — it would be one thing if your lovers didn't enjoy you, Sir, but they do. They enjoy you a — a great deal! I would think that you would come to be, if not proud of your lovemaking, then at least... accepting of it." 

And Uncle Treville grins — and then *looks* at Father — 

And Father steeples his fingers under his chin, resting his elbows on his knees. "Son. Were I to make love with you without your uncle's metaphorical lead on me, you would be *badly* injured." 

Olivier blinks — and rears back. "Respectfully, Sir, I do not believe that."

Father smiles — ruefully. "Your mother spent far more of our honeymoon recuperating than doing anything else, son." 

Olivier *grunts* — 

And Uncle Treville crosses his feet at the ankles. "Ask your father how *she* felt about that." 

"I —" Olivier looks at Father. 

Father frowns. "Treville..." 

"Complete honesty, in all things," Uncle Treville says. 

"That's what we agreed, yes, and I will not demur," Father says, "But — we must not *mislead* Olivier." 

"And we will not. We will give him the tools to make *entirely* informed choices." 

Father nods thoughtfully, eyes tracking fast as he considers — something. 

Olivier waits — 

And then Father looks *at* him again. "Ask me, son. Ask me about your mother." 

"Yes, Sir. How did Mother feel about — needing that much time to recuperate from your lovemaking?" 

"She smiled as she examined her bruises in the mirrors. She purred when she pressed on her bite-marks with her also-bitten fingers. She moaned when I examined her swollen and tender vulva — at her command — to see if I had actually damaged her. 

"We had both been told that there could be blood after lovemaking, but no one had told us how much to expect. To our minds, there had been... too much." And Father pauses and raises an eyebrow. 

Olivier knows what's expected. "How... how much was there?" 

"Spotting on the sheets, after. A streak on her pale, beautiful thigh. Enough to be seen on my cock." 

"Oh. Oh." 

"The next three days, when she used the chamberpot, there was more — and pain." 

"Is that — but you didn't know if that was normal." 

"We did not. I've since talked to any number of men who have made love with women who were virgins beforehand, and I've been told — with *great* authority — that it was *not*." 

Olivier swallows. "You... hurt Mother." 

"I did. Inexcusably, considering the fact that I went to my marriage bed armed with a great *deal* of advice from *all* of your Uncles about how to avoid doing just that." And Father's eyebrow is still up. 

"Why didn't you take it, Sir?" 

"I could not. I found myself incapable. I found myself *drunk* on my own lusts, and, with no one there to act as a check on my behaviours..." And Father spreads his hands."While she was unable to take me vaginally, I took her mouth. I bruised her face and scalp quite badly." 

"Did she relish those bruises, as well, Sir?" 

Father clutches his hands together — "We would... curl together after our lovemaking like children, and discuss it. What we had liked and disliked. What we wanted more, and more, and *more* of. She told me, time and again, that my passion thrilled her, that she had never imagined being desired so powerfully... 

"She taught me how to make love to *her* with my mouth, and *that* I learned to do with some degree of gentleness, if only to not slow her healing process..." Father pauses. "How do you feel about this?" 

"Sir?" 

"You're hiding your reactions from us. This is improper and incorrect on a number of levels —" 

Olivier grunts —

"— but it also informs my question," Father says. 

"I — I apologize, Sir! And Uncle —" 

"Shh. We understand that you did this instinctively. Yes, brother?" 

"Oh, yes. I think it would be a rare bird who *wouldn't* instinctively shy away — in one way or another — from talk of his father hurting his mother sexually on their honeymoon." 

Oh — "I — I want to hear!" 

"Do you, son...?" And Uncle Treville raises both eyebrows. "Is that how you want to think of your mother?" 

Olivier moans — 

Father clenches his hands more tightly — 

"I — I want to think of her *every* way. Every way she's *happy*." 

And. 

Uncle Treville adjusts his cock in his trousers without ever looking *away* from him — 

Olivier *pants* — 

"Every way she's *pleased*, son?" 

"Yes. Yes, Uncle —" 

"To *me*, son." 

Olivier turns back to Father — "Yes, Sir!" 

"Tell me how you feel, knowing that I hurt your mother every time we make love. Knowing that I make her weep. Knowing that *that* is the lovemaking which produced you and Thomas." 

Olivier swallows. "I'm very aroused, Sir!" 

"And?"

"And. I want to see. I want to see you make love with Mother. I want to." 

"Yes, son?" 

"I want to. Hold her. While you do." 

Uncle Treville rumbles. 

Olivier blushes — 

"Do you wish to comfort your mother, son? To ease her?" 

"Yes — I — and —" 

"Or do you wish to hold her down for me?" 

Olivier *groans* — "Both — please, *both*, Sir —" 

"Show me your cock." 

Olivier's knees buckle and he staggers — 

"You may kneel." 

He drops, clumsy and awkward, but fixes his posture once he's down — 

"Trousers and breeches open," Father says. 

"Yes, Sir, yes —" And Olivier works to obey at speed, at *speed*, opening himself for Father — 

For Father and his *Uncle* — 

Who's flaring his *nostrils* — 

"He is, indeed, taking even more of your scents, son. Help him." 

"Yes, Sir," Olivier says, kneeling up and *shoving* his trousers and breeches down to mid-thigh — 

"He has such heavy bollocks for a fifteen-year-old," Uncle Treville says *conversationally*. 

"Mine were much the same," Father says — 

Uncle Treville laughs. "That surprises me not at *all*." 

Father hums. "The comparison is comprehensible and flattering enough." 

"You're *welcome*," Uncle Treville says. 

And then Father pins *him* with a look — 

"Yes, Sir?" 

"Thighs together. Let your balls rest atop them." 

"Oh — yes, Sir —" 

"Wait. Push your trousers and breeches down a little farther first — yes, that's perfect." 

"Thank you, Sir —" 

"Thighs together — good boy. Is he sweating, brother?" 

"Deliciously." 

Father sighs. "I want to taste. I've envied your senses beyond words."

Olivier licks his lips. "Perhaps you could... taste me now?" 

Father growls. "Are you hungry for me, son." 

"I'm — yes, Sir. Very much so, Sir." 

"That is... intensely pleasing." 

"I'm glad, Sir —" 

"I can't taste you, yet." 

"No, Sir?" 

"No," Father says, and smiles. "I will lose control, and need to proceed immediately with my other plans for you — likely in a highly disorganized manner." 

"I don't mind —" 

"I do." 

Olivier grunts — "Yes, Sir." 

"Tell me if you tasted Thomas's cock." 

"Yes, Sir —" 

"Thoroughly?" 

"Yes, Sir. I — I had to. I needed every part of it in my mouth —" 

"Did you do it *extensively*." 

"Not — the first time." 

"You did it more than once." 

"Yes, Sir. I — three times." 

Uncle Treville rumbles, and that — 

"Only — only the first two times involved him spending in my mouth." 

Father raises an eyebrow. "What happened the third time?" 

Olivier rubs at his own thighs, scratches at them, balls his hands into fists — 

"Hands behind your back, son." 

"Oh — thank you, Sir —" 

"You're welcome, son. Answer the question." 

"Yes, Sir," Olivier says, and obeys — "Thomas asked me to — to thrust against him again." 

"'Again'. You'd already done it once." 

"Yes, Father." 

"Did you enjoy it?" 

"Yes, Father. I — lost myself. Very quickly." 

"Did he make you feel as though you were fucking him, son?" 

Olivier moans — 

Flushes — 

"I — I don't know." 

Father narrows his eyes. 

"I apologize, Sir —" 

"Shh. I'm frustrated with the situation, *not* with you." 

"You're simply going to have to revisit this line of questioning once he *has* fucked someone, brother," Uncle Treville says, with a laugh in his voice. 

"Mm. You're right, of course," Father says, eyes twinkling just that fast. "But I want answers now." 

"You could ask *other* questions..." 

"Like I was doing, you mean." 

Uncle Treville grins. "You could consider it." 

"Hmm. You play frighteningly fast and loose with your incestuous lovemaking, brother." 

Uncle Treville *coughs* — 

And Father turns back to him. "What did you enjoy the *most*, son? What..." Father licks his lips. "What are you hungering, right now, to do again with Thomas?" 

Olivier blinks. He — 

That's. 

"I... am not certain I can answer that question satisfactorily, Father." 

Father narrows his eyes again. 

Uncle Treville laughs *hard* — 

"Brother." 

"Ask him *reasonable* questions!" 

"I — don't want to."

"Too bloody *bad*!" And Uncle Treville laughs even harder, holding his flat belly and putting one foot up on the wall. 

"Hm. All right. Could you tell me *why* you can't answer —" 

Uncle Treville hoots — 

"— my question —" 

Uncle Treville wheezes — 

"That's very enervating, brother." 

Uncle Treville coughs — 

Sniffs — 

Coughs more — "I apologize, of course. Do go on," he says, and winks at Olivier again. 

Father narrows his eyes at Uncle *Treville* — 

Uncle Treville lolls his tongue — 

And Father — laughs, bright and *almost* easy. "Oh — I needed that." 

"You most certainly *did*, brother." 

"Please keep reminding me — well. You know precisely what I need *always*," Father says, and turns back to *him*. "Let this be a lesson to you, son: When you find someone who *can* provide you with much-needed control, hold onto them with both *hands*. And invite them into your bedroom whenever possible." 

Olivier imagines sharing Thomas with Porthos — 

Imagines Porthos just — *gentling* him — 

Slowing him down — 

Helping him find his control so that he could do everything he *wanted* to do with Thomas, *how* he — 

Father hums again. "You're already thinking of someone." 

Oh — "Yes, Sir." 

"Is it Porthos?" 

"Yes, Sir. He — he was helping me earlier. He tried to help me — I pushed him away." 

Father lifts his chin. "Why?" 

"Thomas and Aramis were both... jealous. I'm not entirely certain about Aramis, but Thomas needed a great deal of reassurance that he was desired, desired by *me* —" 

"Aramis needed reassurance that he would always be a part of our lives," Uncle Treville says. 

Olivier blinks — "Is that why you changed him, Uncle?" 

Uncle Treville grins sharply. "Porthos did that, son. Aramis *wished* for it — aloud — while Porthos was feeling passionate and willful. Consider this a warning to be *careful* what you wish for around Porthos while he continues to gain control over his new powers." 

"Oh — oh. That wasn't on *purpose*?" 

"Not even *remotely*. None of us were even aware that *could* be done without the shedding of a great deal of bodily fluids, the carving and blessing of certain talismans..." Uncle Treville shakes his head. "Be *careful* what you *wish* for." 

Olivier swallows hard. "Yes, Uncle."

"To me, son," Father says — 

"Yes, Sir —" 

"Tell me more about Porthos... helping you." 

"We... he warned me that Thomas would say and do things that I wouldn't expect, even though I'd known him all my life. He warned me that I'd lose control for those things, and so I should let my fantasies... run wild before he came to me. He said that Uncle Treville had helped him in similar ways." 

"I have, indeed. Aramis has an *amazing* gift for saying things that shut Porthos's mind *off*," Uncle Treville says, and laughs hard. 

Father grins. "I'd suspected something like that, by the sheer number of *curious* reports you and the other lieutenants have been giving me about why my star recruits are in the soup *today*." 

Uncle Treville snickers — 

"I... Sir..." 

"Yes, son?" 

"Do you disapprove of Porthos as a choice? For someone to help me with my control, I mean." 

"Not at all, son. But you're going to have to have a good, long discussion — with Aramis and Thomas, as well — about jealousy, possession... hmm. What *triggered* the jealousy?" 

"It was my understanding, Sir, that both Aramis and Thomas already felt jealousy about Porthos's and my friendship and brotherhood — " 

"*Really*." 

"Yes, Sir. This was exacerbated by the fact that Porthos and I masturbated together before Aramis and Thomas joined us." 

"That explains *those* scents," Uncle Treville says, with a pleased rumble. 

Father laughs softly. "I'm jealous again." 

"We'll make sure you get those scents to your —" 

"*Don't* say 'to my heart's content'. There is no such thing." 

Uncle Treville sighs. "You're absolutely correct. My apologies." 

"Accepted, of course," Father says, and turns back to him. "Tell me, son. Were you making love with Porthos when the two of you were masturbating?" 

"I — don't think so." 

Father raises an eyebrow. "Were you watching him?" 

"For — some of it, Sir." 

"Did you have to look away?" 

"Yes, Sir —" 

"Was he too beautiful?" 

"Yes. Yes, Sir." 

"Did you enjoy his cock?" 

"I wanted." Olivier swallows. He is aware — more aware — of his own cock. His own — 

He's aware of his sweat — 

He wants — 

"Remember, son — answer *quickly*." 

Olivier moans. "I apologize, Sir. I became lost in thoughts of my own nudity." 

"You're naked for me, and for your Uncle." 

"Yes, Sir —" 

"Your body is mine, right now." 

"Yes, Sir —" 

"Everything you are is mine, right now." 

"Yes —" 

"I will not surrender possession of you even after we are all sated and spent." 

Olivier *grunts* — "Yes — yes, Sir —" 

"Did you enjoy Porthos's thick, hard, dripping cock." 

"*Yes*, Sir —" 

"Did you want to suck it." 

Olivier pants — "Yes, Sir. Very badly, Sir. That — I turned away — I turned my thoughts away —" 

"You could do that?" 

"We had already — Porthos had pointed out that we *did* have to talk to our brothers before we two... moved forward." 

Uncle Treville growls — 

And Father does, as well. 

Olivier blinks — "Was that incorrect?" 

Uncle Treville barks a laugh. "On the contrary, son — it was entirely *too* correct." 

"I." 

Father laughs softly and unlaces his shirt, revealing that the hair on his chest is damp with sweat. "We long to wallow in your losses of control, son, so as to excuse our own losses." 

"Among other reasons," Uncle Treville says, and *looks* at Father. 

Father inclines his head to Uncle Treville. "As ever," he says, and then turns back to *him*. "Tell me a fantasy." 

"About whom, Sir?" 

Father cocks his head to the side. "Who were you fantasizing about when you turned yourself away from Porthos?" 

"Mother. Mostly." 

Father wets his lips. "I'm not ready for that." 

"No, you're not," Uncle Treville says with a ribald grin. "Try again." 

"I don't want to." 

"Do it anyway." 

"I don't —" Father growls. "Describe the feel of your mother's breast." 

Olivier's cock jerks — "Very soft. Very — I wasn't expecting. They always look so firmly... in place." 

"Her corsetry would have nothing less," Uncle Treville says. "Laurent." 

"One moment," Father says, and leans forward, clutching his hands together *tightly* — 

Two of his knuckles crack — 

"When you found her nipple, you frowned. Why was that." 

"At first because I wasn't certain that I hadn't simply found a fold of her clothing. Then because — I was concentrating. I didn't want to fail, Sir. Not either of you." 

Father pants. "Did you like it." 

"Yes, Sir." 

"Did you want to —" 

"*Laurent*." 

"I am —" 

"Poised. To. Spring." 

"My hands are —" 

"Laurent." 

Father pants — 

And *pants* — 

And snarls — "Touch him." 

"Of course," Uncle Treville says, and moves off the wall — 

Crosses the room — 

And kneels behind Olivier. 

*Olivier* pants — 

"Thighs. Apart," Father says. 

"Yes, Sir — *oh* —" And Uncle Treville *yanks* Olivier back onto him, onto his *lap* — 

Olivier's thighs are *sprawled* over Uncle Treville's own — 

"Lean back, son," Uncle Treville says — 

Right into Olivier's ear — 

"Yes — yes, Uncle," Olivier says, and leans back cautiously, carefully — 

"Arms up," Father says, and he's still panting — "Reach back and wrap your arms around your Uncle's neck." 

Oh — "Yes, Sir —" 

"Do I want his shirt —" 

"You do," Uncle Treville says, and yanks it up and over Olivier's head, bunching it at the back of his neck. 

And then — Father sighs.

And stares at him with a greed that — 

That should *burn* — 

And Uncle Treville splays his right hand on Olivier's chest and cups Olivier's *throat* with his left hand — 

If anything, Father's expression gets *hungrier* — 

"Sir — I — Sir..." 

"Ask." 

"Do you wish to touch me this way?" 

"Every way." 

"I — every...?" 

"Gently. Exactingly. Thoroughly. Roughly. Carelessly — no. Not that way. But... I believe you get the idea." 

"Is Uncle Treville your surrogate?" 

"At the moment," Father says, and wets his lips again — 

Again —

"Are you capable of feeling how erect your Uncle is?" 

Olivier swallows with difficulty — "I — to a certain extent, Sir —" 

"Allow me to fix that problem," Uncle Treville says, moving his hands to Olivier's hips and *jerking* him *back* — 

"Ah —" 

"Now, son?" 

"He — he is very hard, Sir —" 

"Do you feel his heat, son?" 

"Yes, Sir —" 

"Porthos's cock was that hot."

Olivier's cock spasms *hard*, spattering his belly and surely Uncle Treville's hand — "Oh — I apologize —" 

"Shh, none of that," Uncle Treville says, and he keeps one hand on Olivier's hip, but he moves the other back to his throat. "We're all going to be *extremely* messy before all's said and done, son."

"Yes — Uncle —" 

Father growls. "Did you and Thomas bathe together after you had made love?" 

"Yes, Sir. We didn't want to be late for dinner." 

"Did you wash your brother." 

"No —" 

"Did you *want* to." 

"With my tongue, Sir." 

Father blinks and grins — 

And Uncle Treville barks a laugh — 

And Father hums again. "*How* shall we reward my son for that?" 

"Let's make him spend all over himself while *not* making him think." 

"Not — the first half of that sounds so *pleasant*, brother —" 

Uncle Treville laughs hard and kisses Olivier's ear — "I tried, son." 

"He will never think poorly of being tested *again* —" 

"He will never be tested without an *erection* again —" 

"There was no need to repeat what I said, brother." 

Uncle Treville snickers like a boy — and moves his hand from Olivier's hip to his cock. 

"*Oh* —" 

"Listen very carefully, Olivier." 

"Yes, Sir!" 

"You must be as still as you can be until we tell you different. You must answer every question with alacrity. You must *give* yourselves to us." 

"*Yes*, Sir!"

And Uncle Treville *squeezes* Olivier's cock —

So *hard* —

So — 

Olivier *groans* — 

Whimpers and groans *more* — 

"Just like that, son," Uncle Treville says, and kisses his ear again — 

"Yes," Father says. "That's... entirely perfect." And he wets his lips again. "Your mother's breasts —" 

"*Laurent* —" 

"I have *you*, brother. I will not move from this spot," Father says, and looks at Uncle Treville — 

Uncle Treville *must* be looking back — and he's close enough that Olivier can feel him nod. "*Let* me hold your lead for this." 

"I will," Father says. "You do." 

"So be it," Uncle Treville says. "Go on." 

"Son. Do you wish to *suckle* your mother's breasts." 

"When. When Porthos and I were masturbating, Sir, we were fantasizing about... about her milk." 

Father makes a *desperate* sound — 

"Laurent..." 

"I am still *well*," Father says, and looks up, stares, *growls* — "Did you want to take it *together*." 

"Yes, Sir —" 

"Did you dream of holding her *down*." 

"I dreamed of *you* holding her down for us — all of us —" 

And then Father just *is* standing, pacing, growling — 

Uncle Treville is holding him *close* — 

*Protectively* — 

"I will not *injure* —" 

"*Laurent*. I think you should sit *down* again," Uncle Treville says. 

"I —" 

"*Please*," Uncle Treville says, and — it's a command, for all of its politesse. 

Father growls — 

Stops pacing — 

*Stares* at both of them — "You'll have to let me touch him at some point." 

"When you're ready, brother." 

"When —" Father growls. "I want to *open* you, son." 

Olivier grunts and *bucks* — not far. He *can't*, in Uncle Treville's arms — 

"You like that." 

"Y—" 

"Don't answer that just yet, son," Uncle Treville says, and covers his mouth. "Laurent." 

"Brother. Am I so..." 

"You are. And, even if you aren't, this is *not* where we take *chances*." 

Father *blinks* — 

Inhales sharply — 

And goes to sit back down on the bed. 

He pets the duvet to either side of him extensively — 

Sensually — 

Olivier *wants* — 

"I see the desire in your eyes, son. I see... I once saw such things in your Uncle's eyes and chose to interpret them with the information I'd gathered for myself about love and sexuality as my guide — as opposed to simply asking him about it." 

Uncle Treville makes a small, hurt noise — 

"Will you make that mistake, son?" 

Uncle Treville moves his hand back to Olivier's throat — 

"No, Sir!" 

"You will always ask?" 

"Yes, Sir!" 

"Good boy. I'm asking you: What desire was in your eyes a moment ago." 

"You were... stroking the duvet. I want. I want your hands on me, Sir." 

"That gently? That... carefully?" 

"Not... not necessarily —" 

"But that is *one* of the things you *believe* you would like, son?" 

"Yes, Sir. I. It would give me time to... savor your calluses, Sir." 

Father pants. "Reward him immediately and extensively." 

"Absolutely," Uncle Treville says, *licking* Olivier's ear — 

"*Oh* —" 

— and stroking his cock, stroking him — 

Olivier cries *out* — 

Arches — 

"Arse *down*, son." 

"Y-yes, Sir!" And Olivier *obeys* — 

Drops until he's *grinding* against Uncle Treville's hard cock — 

Uncle Treville *bucks* — 

Olivier's *belly* drops — 

He *chokes* on a cry — 

Uncle Treville is still *stroking* him — 

Fast and hard and — 

"I want to *open* you," Father says. "I want to *push* my fingers inside you and fuck you with them —" 

"Please! *Please*!" 

"You *want* that." 

"Yes — *yes*, Sir!" 

"You want me to *prepare* you for my *cock*."

"Please, Sir, I want you to fuck me!" 

"The way I fuck your mother?" 

Olivier groans and tries to stay as still as he can, tries to only grind, wriggle — 

Uncle Treville is *panting* in his *ear* — 

He — 

"*Answer*." 

"Or! The way you — you fuck Uncle Treville!" 

Uncle Treville *growls* — 

*Squeezes* his cock *hard* — 

Olivier *screams* —

*Father* growls — "*Spend*." 

"I — I —" 

"Spend for *me*." 

"I will! I — I will, Papa!" And then Olivier chokes and *blushes* — 

Blushes so — 

His heart is *pounding* —

He's shuddering all — 

"Oh. Son. Say that again," Father says, and the color is high in his cheeks, and his lips are parted, and his chest is shining with sweat, and — 

His eyes — 

His eyes are *burning* — 

And there are no options. "Papa..." 

Father *growls*. "My boy. My. My *little* boy..." 

Olivier shudders more, but — isn't he small in Uncle Treville's hands? Isn't he — 

Father is so tall, so big — 

And Uncle Treville is all but *surrounding* him — 

And there are so many ways to be small. 

And. 

Olivier thinks he's found all of them. "Papa, please..." 

"Treville. Stroke him. Cup his big, beautiful *balls*." 

Uncle Treville growls again. "Such wonderfully big bollocks for such a little boy..." 

Olivier cries out — 

Uncle Treville cups him, squeezes his balls, his cock, his balls again —

"Do you like that, son?"

Olivier opens his mouth, but only a *groan* comes out — 

"Do you like being our little boy? Mm?" And Uncle Treville squeezes harder, just a little harder — 

Olivier tries to tell them yes — 

Tries to *show* them, to look at them and let them *see* — 

He's so — 

He can't — 

He's *small* — 

And then there's growling, inside his mind and out — 

Uncle Treville *and* Papa — 

They — 

They're *inside* him — 

(We always will be,) Uncle Treville says, and licks him again, works him harder — 

"Nuh — please — *please* —" 

"Good boy, such a good little boy —" 

"Our boy," Father says — 

"*Always* —" 

Olivier throws his head back and — 

Chokes on another scream, another — 

And then the scream comes *out*, but it's in Uncle Treville's *ear* — 

He *chuckles* — 

"You need to spend for me, still, son," Father says — 

Oh yes yes yes, and it feels right to grind down against Uncle Treville's big cock, to — 

To stop himself from *pushing* into those hands — 

To — 

He's whining — 

He's — "*Please*! Please!" 

"Can you see him shake, Laurent?" 

"So... that's beautiful, son, that's perfect. Don't stop. Don't stop until you *spend*." 

"Papa!" 

Father *grunts* — 

Olivier whines and shudders hard, needs, *needs* — "Please! Please let me — push —-" 

"No," Father says, and his voice is so solid, so deep, so — 

Olivier feels it all through him — 

Olivier feels it making him shake *more*, feels it making his shuddering and shaking *mean* more — 

"I — I — *Papa* —" 

"You must strain, son. You must — oh, you're so beautiful..." 

He's doing it for Papa, he's — 

"You're perfect in my hands, Olivier. You were *born* to take this for us. To — nnh. I'm going to fuck you *mindless*," Uncle Treville says, and — 

And starts stroking faster, faster but *light* — 

Olivier wants to fuck — 

But that's not for him — 

That's — 

He's just a little boy, and he grinds and wriggles on Uncle Treville's lap, bounces on his cock like a boy in — in a brothel, and he — 

And Papa is opening his trousers — 

And Uncle Treville is growling on every *breath* — 

And Uncle Treville squeezes *viciously* hard — 

And Papa squeezes *himself* through his *wet* breeches — 

And Olivier can't — 

Can't *see* — 

He's just — 

He can't *see* — 

"*Do* it," Papa says, and Olivier is screaming, crying out, *screaming* — 

Every part of Olivier is tense and straining and — and on fire — 

He can't stop screaming — 

His cock is *spasming* — 

Spurting all over Uncle Treville's hand — 

He can't stop — 

He's still *wriggling* on Uncle Treville's *lap* — 

Uncle Treville's cock is so hard, so *hard*, and he wants — 

He can't — 

His spend is arcing so *high* — 

"Oh, good boy, good *boy*," Uncle Treville says, and *bites* him hard and stinging and — so *good* — 

Papa is *working* himself through his breeches — 

Olivier is *sobbing* out yells — 

He's their boy, their *boy* — 

And then — 

And then he *slumps*, falling back against Uncle Treville and panting and panting and — 

He can't — focus — 

"Oh, son," Papa says in a *growl*. "That was... perfection." 

"Thank you — I — Sir —"

"No." 

Olivier flushes and stiffens and — and. He knows what's needed. He knows what's right.

(That's right you do,) Uncle Treville says. 

His — *their* — presence inside him — 

He'd forgotten — 

They're so big, so *much* — 

And. 

That's all part of this. "Papa," Olivier says, and lowers his head in apology. 

"Oh... son. That would be correct, but I need to see your face. Up." 

Olivier looks up. "Yes, Papa. I feel... disrespectful." 

"On the contrary, son. 'Papa' was the first honour you awarded me, was it not?" 

"Yes, Papa." 

"In this way, it will always be, to me, the greatest." 

Olivier moans. "I. Wish. To kneel to you." 

"You're already kneeling." 

"But —" 

Papa laughs and squeezes himself *hard* through his breeches. "I know. I know. You're such a good little boy. Why don't you crawl over here and show me how much you've learned." 

"Laurent —" 

"I'm giddy with the scents of his spend, his desire. I'm — he is *submitting*." 

"And you know what you *do* with people who submit to you." 

"He will only — only — lick my cock. *You* will suck it to completion. Should that be necessary," Father says, and laughs hard.

Olivier *moans* — "Please — please, I want —" 

And Uncle Treville rumbles. "Well. I suppose you *have* been a good little boy," he says — and releases him!

Olivier pants — 

He needs to get there — 

He needs to — but he's not certain — 

"Hands on the floor, son," Papa says. "You're going to crawl, as I said." 

Oh — just like — 

"Just like the little boy you are," Uncle Treville says, and moves Olivier's hands from between them. "Go on." 

Olivier moans and drops his hands to the floor immediately — 

Hangs his head — 

"Head *up*, son," Papa says. "I must see every expression on your face." 

Olivier *jerks* his head up and crawls fast, *fast*, shuffling his knees on the rugs — 

No, that's messy; they'd wanted a neat room — 

He lifts his knees — 

He tries — 

"Such a good boy," Papa says, panting *hard* as he opens his breeches — 

"Such a fine arse in the air," Uncle Treville says — 

"Are you ready to taste it?" 

Olivier croaks — 

"Three years ago," Uncle Treville says — 

"Why didn't you *say*?" 

The silence is — heavy. 

Olivier pauses — 

"Did we *tell* you to stop, son?" 

"No, Papa, I'm —" 

"*Move*." 

"Yes, Papa," Olivier says, heart pounding, *pounding*, and — then he's there, kneeling between Papa's legs — 

His scents are so — 

Olivier *groans* — 

Leans in — 

Papa is holding his cock behind his hand, but it's too *big* for that — too — 

He's too hard — 

Too — 

"Please, Papa..." 

Papa pants — 

Pants again — "You want my cock, son?" 

"Yes, Papa. I want — to lick it —" 

"Is that all you want?" 

"No, Papa, I want to *suck* it —" 

"You." Papa growls. "You want to take it in your mouth —" 

"But he *won't*," Uncle Treville says, and sits on the bed next to Papa, "Unless I do this," he says, easily brushing Papa's hand aside and *gripping* the base of Papa's huge cock with his own hand. 

Olivier's mouth waters — 

He swallows — 

He swallows again — "Please — may I?" 

They both stare down at him for a moment — and then Uncle Treville angles Papa's cock down — "Go on and take it, Olivier." 

Papa groans even before Olivier touches — 

He's *leaking* — 

*Dripping* — 

Olivier licks and licks and — 

Papa tenses and *snarls* — 

And Olivier opens wide and takes the head in his mouth — 

Takes — 

He *groans* —

It's even more than it had seemed like it *would* be — 

The taste is so strong, so adult — 

It's so *different* from Thomas, so much heavier, more rich with musk, so much less *sweet* — 

Olivier *groans* — 

Papa throws his *head* back — 

He's so *tense* — 

All of his muscles are *flexed* — 

"He needs you to suck now, son," Uncle Treville says. "Or... can you take a little more? It's safe. He can't thrust while I'm holding him like this." 

And Olivier notices that Uncle Treville is turned to his side — 

That he has one arm wrapped *around* Papa while the other hand is *locked* around Papa's cock — 

*His* muscles are straining — 

And Olivier is hard again, needy again, *wanting* again — 

He wants Papa's *force*! 

He wants to be strong enough for it, *ready* for it — 

"I'm going to *make* you ready," Uncle Treville says. "Now take more." 

Olivier obeys *immediately*, taking more, more — 

Taking as much as he *can* — 

His mouth feels so *full* — 

And then Papa is staring at him, staring and *panting* — "Pull back. Pull *back*." 

Please, Papa! 

"You're going to. To *fuck* yourself on my cock." 

Oh — Olivier pulls back and then takes Papa's cock back *in* again, as fast as he can — 

It's not very — 

"Try. *Again*," Uncle Treville says, and Olivier nods — he's already doing it, already — 

He's opening wider, working to keep his teeth covered, working to take, to *take* — 

*Papa* groans — 

"There you are, son," Uncle Treville says. "Keep going." 

Yes, *yes*, because this feels — 

This feels so — 

He's *taking* his Papa's cock — not all of it, but he's opening himself, making himself ready — 

"Like — a good *boy*," Papa says, and he sounds so strained, so hungry — 

Olivier blushes — 

Tries to swallow back his *saliva* — 

He can't. 

He — 

"You're drooling all over your Papa's cock," Uncle Treville says with *relish* — and *he* sounds strained, too. "You know we've been waiting for this, son." 

Olivier groans again, *chokes* — 

"Don't. *Stop*," Uncle Treville says — 

They're both *shaking* — 

Olivier is shaking, *too* — 

He needs — 

He's so *hard* — and he's fucking himself with his Papa's cock, he's — 

But can he take more? 

Can he take enough to swallow? 

"Let's find out," Uncle Treville says, holding Laurent's body tighter and only *ringing* his cock with his fingers — 

Oh — 

Olivier tries — 

He *tries*, battering his throat once — 

Again — 

Papa *shouts* — 

"Swallow *just* as the head of your Papa's cock —" 

He batters himself again — 

Papa shouts *again* — 

Shudders hard enough to shake the *bed* — 

It feels so *good* — 

He's *drooling* more — 

"But you like that..." And Uncle Treville laughs hard. "I should've known. Our Olivier has always been fond of beating right *through* a problem. Perhaps we should beat *you*, mm? Give you a rough hiding when you misbehave...?" 

Olivier chokes again, cock jerking — 

Papa's cock jerks in his *mouth* — 

Olivier tries to *swallow* — and gets it. 

He — 

Papa is inside! *Inside*, and — 

(*Fuck* yourself, son!) 

Papa, yes!

Olivier closes his eyes so he can focus and takes, *takes*, and it's harder, more painful — his throat is *tight* — 

(It won't seem that way for long...) 

And Olivier's cock jerks again — 

He clutches at the duvet with both hands — 

And then Papa grabs his wrists, holds them, *holds* them, warms them — 

(My — my *son* —) 

Yours! 

(It — it won't. Be. *Long*.) 

And Olivier shudders, groans in his chest, swallows and swallows — 

Papa is groaning and *growling* — 

The bed is creaking — 

Olivier opens his eyes — Papa is writhing in *place*, writhing in Uncle Treville's *arms* — 

Olivier is doing this to him!

He's making him feel this — this — 

"You're making him feel *perfect*, son," Uncle Treville growls. "You're making him need you like nothing *else*. Now swallow and *keep* swallowing for just a little —" 

Olivier obeys — 

Papa *yells* — 

"Oh, just like that — just like — oh, son, I can't wait to eat your arse. I can't wait to make you spend just as hard as you're going to make your father spend right... about... now. Be ready," Uncle Treville says, and *releases* Papa — 

Papa grabs Olivier's *face* — 

Thrusts *in* — 

"My *son* —" 

He pulls out barely an *inch* — 

"My — my *son* —" 

He slams *in* — 

Olivier's cock *spasms* — 

And then Papa *grinds* in and in and *in* — 

So — 

So many *times* — 

Olivier's face is *crushed* against him — 

Papa's dark curls are scratching and tickling Olivier's lips — 

He can't — 

He can't *breathe* — 

(You're doing fine, son, you're — mm. You're so perfect like this. I'm going to eat you *alive*.) 

And Olivier feels himself going loose, going — going *slack* — 

Losing himself — 

Papa *roars* — 

Grips him *tighter* — 

And then — wet heat in Olivier's throat — 

Wet heat and Papa's *rigid* tension —

He's so still — 

(Not for —) 

And then Papa roars again and starts to *fuck* him, long strokes of his long, hard *cock* — 

He's — 

He's *spattering* Olivier's mouth and throat with hot spend — 

The strokes go on and *on* — 

It *hurts* — 

And then Papa pulls *out* — 

And spends on his chin — 

Uncle Treville is *holding* him — 

Uncle Treville is working Papa's cock with his other *hand*, so hard, so tight, so — so *expertly* — 

Papa cries out and spends on Olivier's open *mouth* — 

Olivier licks his lips — 

Papa spends *again* — and then slumps. 

And stares, wild-eyed and hungry. Still so *hungry*. He — 

Olivier licks the spend — thicker and *saltier* than Thomas's, slightly more bitter —

He wipes his face and licks the spend from his fingers, takes it all, takes it — 

He knows he's *supposed* to — 

"But do you want it, son?" And Papa is still panting — 

His cock is *more* than half-hard — 

So wet — 

So *dark* — 

"Focus on me now, son." 

Olivier moans. "I want." He stops, startled by his own hoarseness — but. That's to be expected. He tries again. "I want everything, Papa."

Papa winces with obvious lust — 

And Uncle Treville holds him much more casually, leaning in to lick Papa's ear. "Look at him there, brother. Trousers and breeches scrunched down round his knees, shirt bunched behind his neck, slick with sweat and spend, mouth swollen, lips parted..." 

"I..." 

"He looks ravished already, doesn't he." 

"Yes. He does. Are you suggesting we *stop*, brother?" 

Uncle Treville laughs... filthily. "I would *never* do such a thing. But I do think he's earned the bed." 

Papa sighs and licks his lips. "Yes. Yes. And he's earned you." 

"Has he, now." 

"Take him." 

"With *pleasure*, brother," Uncle Treville says, and moves to crouch by him. "Do you understand that you're mine now, son?" 

"I — I — not Papa's?" 

"You'll *always* be his — for everything, in every way — but, for right now, it's my orders you'll be following." 

Olivier nods thoughtfully. "Papa is allowing you to use me."

Uncle Treville cups Olivier's face, careful of the sore spots Papa has left. "And pleasure you. I've wanted to do that for quite some time." 

Olivier feels — small. He licks his lips. "I was hoping you and Papa would both pleasure me. And allow me to pleasure you." 

Uncle Treville rumbles. "You'll have that. I promise." 

"Oh. Yes?" 

"Mm-hm. One of the reasons we're doing things this way is that I'll have an easier time making you *ready* for your Papa." 

"More ready." 

Uncle Treville grins. "Oh, yes. We haven't opened your arse, at all." 

Olivier grunts and clenches on nothing — 

"Mm. I know you want that. I know you want to be ready for your Papa's big cock." 

"For — I want him to *fuck* me." 

"Rest assured, son — no one is leaving this room tonight until your Papa fucks you." 

"I — oh," Olivier says, blinking and — readjusting. Re-*thinking*.

Uncle Treville rumbles a laugh. "That's *right*. We've a long, sticky journey ahead of us, son." 

"It's entirely possible," Papa says, from the far side of the bed, "that you may lose consciousness at some point." 

Olivier *blinks* — 

"Don't worry, though, son," Uncle Treville says. "We'll wake you *right* up." 

"I — Uncle."

"Yes, son?" 

"Will you... will *you* be fucking me? To... make me ready?" 

"That I will. Though I'll also be doing it because your arse is sweet and round, and your musk has been driving me mad for... well, let's just call it 'an unconscionable length of time' and leave it at that." 

"I... don't want to leave it." 

"Neither do I, brother..." 

Uncle Treville opens his mouth — and laughs hard. "All right, all secrets out. But *first*. Olivier. Are you *all right* taking my orders?" 

"Oh — *yes*, Uncle!" 

"Are you certain?" 

"You won't injure me. You won't hurt me — incorrectly. You've always — you've always taken care of me." 

Uncle Treville growls. "And I always will. You'll always be my godson. You'll always be the *first* of my sons."

Olivier feels something *heat* inside him — 

Feels something — 

He can't make a *sound* — 

"Shh, it's all right. Just stand for me, and let me get you properly naked. It's time." 

Olivier opens his mouth — and moans. And nods. And stands — 

"Good boy," Uncle Treville says, and starts undressing him, quickly and efficiently and gently, all at once. 

Olivier can't stop himself from moaning more — 

And Papa hums. "About those unconscionable desires..." 

Uncle Treville laughs — filthily. "Well, brother." 

"Yes, brother?" 

"Feet up now, Olivier... yes, just like that. Good boy," Uncle Treville says as he removes Olivier's shoes and socks — 

His trousers and breeches — 

His shirt is already across the room — 

And then he's naked, all — 

And Uncle Treville is turning him — very obviously for Papa. 

"For myself, as well, son. *Never* discount my desires when it comes to a lovely boy like you." 

"Oh — yes, Uncle —" 

"Arms up a little... a little more... flex your muscles for us... mm. Do you remember when he first started developing these muscles, Laurent?" 

"Yes," Papa says, flat and hungry and *staring*. 

"As you might suspect," Uncle Treville says, and strokes Olivier's arms — 

Squeezes them — 

"As you might *suspect*, I remember you developing these muscles *very* well, Olivier. It was summer, three years ago —" 

"He started developing them that spring," Papa says. 

"Mm. Really. Paying close attention, were you?" 

Papa *looks* at Uncle Treville — 

And Uncle Treville laughs filthily again — and kisses Olivier's forehead — "Up on the bed now, son. Hands and knees, facing the headboard, right next to your Papa." 

"Yes, Uncle!" 

Uncle Treville sighs and steps back — 

Olivier climbs on — 

"Look at that rump — mm. Where was I?" 

"Summer. Three years ago —" 

"And we were all at the garrison, and Olivier took his shirt off with the other men practicing their footwork while I was passing by. 

"I looked him over. 

"I tasted him on the air — I didn't *intend* to do *that* —" 

"But you did intend to look him over." 

Uncle Treville begins to strip. "I did have to see how he was developing, Laurent," he says, and there's another laugh under his voice — 

"Oh, of course." 

"Mm. I tasted his musk.

"And I stopped. 

"And I made up a pretext to speak to one of the other men — some minor correction to his form, I believe —" 

"Useful enough —" 

"And I took deep, *deep* breaths for a goodly amount of time," Uncle Treville says, pausing once he's down to his breeches. "I didn't say to myself 'I'm memorizing this for the next time I have a wank' or even 'I'm checking to make sure he's mature enough for this degree of obsession not to be *obscene*' —" 

Papa *coughs* — 

Olivier is *panting* — 

And Uncle Treville climbs on the bed behind him and... *noses* at the base of his spine. "I simply breathed. 

"Until I had no excuse to stay where I was. Then I walked on... and immediately began thinking about burying my muzzle in your arse, son." 

"Your — muzzle?" 

"You had narrow shanks back then. A part of me was thinking that having the dog lick you would be easier," Uncle Treville says. 

"Oh —" 

"And a part of me was just... hungry," he says, and scrapes his *teeth*, right there — 

Olivier arches — 

"Do you like that?" 

"Yes, Uncle!" 

Uncle Treville licks him — 

And licks him — 

And scrapes his teeth *again* — 

"Ah — please —" 

"What are you begging for, son? Do you know?" 

"I — I don't. Or." 

"'Or'...?" 

"I'm not certain." 

"Mm," Uncle Treville says, and licks Olivier again. "That has possibilities." 

"Hmm. That sounds like you plan on making him think, brother." 

"I may have an idea or two about what you like, brother," Uncle Treville says, and — *nuzzles* him — 

"*Oh* —" 

"I also may have developed a fixation or two after living and loving in your presence for the better part of a quarter-century." 

"I certainly *hope* so," Papa says — 

Uncle Treville laughs — and *nips* Olivier — 

All over his *back* — 

Olivier arches and groans and — leaks — 

His cock is flexing — 

"Do you like this, son?" 

"Yes, Papa!" 

"Would you ever like to have the dog?" 

Olivier cries out — 

"That's an inspiring sound," Uncle Treville says, and — covers him — 

"I — I —" 

"Shh. Here," Uncle Treville says, and presses his mouth to the back of Olivier's neck, and *bites* — 

"Nnh —" 

And Uncle Treville *growls* — 

Growls so heavily and *loudly* — 

Olivier's *belly* drops again — 

He pants — 

He *moans*, leaking and — 

His cock is *spasming* — 

Uncle Treville growls more *viciously* — 

Olivier's cock jerks *hard* — 

Uncle Treville bites that much more *firmly* — 

Olivier *clenches* — 

His belly is *fluttering* — 

He's panting so — so *desperately* — 

And then Uncle Treville stops and pulls back, licking him and — "Good boy." 

"I — Uncle — *I* —" 

"You want it," Uncle Treville says, and licks him slowly, *soothingly* — 

"Please — *please*!" 

"You'll have everything you want, son. But not all *today*." 

"N-no?" 

Uncle Treville laughs softly. "The dog is even more brutal than your father, son." 

Olivier grunts — 

"But his cock is smaller. That's something." 

Olivier *whines* — 

"Mm. Feel free to make that sound all you like," Uncle Treville says, and laps at Olivier's ear — 

"I — it's pleasing?" 

"It makes my dog sit up and beg. To be fair, though..." And Uncle Treville pauses for a long moment *just* to lap — 

Olivier shivers and takes it and waits — 

"Mmm. To be fair... everything about you makes my dog do that," Uncle Treville says, and nips Olivier's ear. "About what you were begging for when I was nosing at the small of your back." 

"I. You've mentioned... eating my arse." 

Olivier can see Uncle Treville grin out of the corner of his eye. "So I have. Do you want it?" 

"I —" 

"Specifically," Uncle Treville says, and *kisses* Olivier's ear again, and the space behind it, and nuzzles there — "Do you want me to lick your arse, and suck it, and kiss it, and nibble it, and fuck it with my long, long tongue...?" 

Olivier moans. "I can't imagine how that *feels*, Uncle." 

"Hmm, that's fair. But you're... curious?" 

Olivier blushes. "Yes, Uncle. And — I want to be fucked. I *know* I want that," he says, and a part of him is only *worried* — 

"Shh, don't be frightened, son. You'll get everything," Uncle Treville says. "You'll get the chance to *try* everything, and decide whether you like it or not." 

"That's — that's so *sensible*." 

Uncle Treville laughs softly. "Did you think sex couldn't be?" 

Olivier blushes harder. "I felt — I didn't have *any* control with Thomas. I didn't — you *saw* him." 

Papa growls. "You're my son." 

"That he is," Uncle Treville says, and licks a long stripe up the back of Olivier's neck. "Think of every time you *haven't* seen your mother's arms, or throat, Olivier." 

"I — she almost never shows —" 

"Unless your father is on campaign...?" 

Olivier *stops* — 

And blinks — 

And — oh. 

Papa hums — 

Uncle Treville laughs — 

"But this just brings me back to thinking sex has no — no *sense*, no *possible* control —" 

"I'll teach you different," Uncle Treville says. 

"I'd like to say, in this moment, that we all will... but." 

Uncle Treville laughs *more* and kisses his way down Olivier's spine. "You do all right, brother — with help." 

"Exactly —" 

"And you know to *ask* for that help," Uncle Treville says, and spreads Olivier's knees slightly wider apart — 

"Oh —" 

"Shh." 

"Yes, Uncle —" 

"Your father knows his limitations, son. He's *learned* them, and learned them *well*. So that, even when he's hungry for his beautiful son," Uncle Treville says, and spreads Olivier's arse — 

Papa gasps — 

Olivier moans — 

"Even when he's just starved for you — like now — he won't even argue too much when I clip on the lead." 

"Your Uncle knows — and I know — that I simply do not have the control to sport with you right now," Papa says. "We didn't know that instantly." 

"We most certainly did *not*," Uncle Treville says, and — 

Licks — 

Licks Olivier's *cleft* — 

It's so — 

It's *not* very wet, and it's strong, and hot, and — 

"No noise for me, Olivier?" 

Olivier opens his mouth, and — he doesn't know what that noise is. It's something like a bird's call, but it's so loud, so *broken* — 

It goes *on* and *on* — 

Olivier chokes and *gasps* — 

"Oh, that's much better." 

"Is — *is* it?" 

"Of course," Papa says. "It was honest, and true, and wonderfully uncontrolled." 

"Is that — pleasing?" 

"Remember, son," Uncle Treville says, "the more you lose control, the more we *like* it." 

"And the more we can... justify losing control ourselves."

Yes. Yes. They — 

They'd already said — 

He can't make them repeat — 

"Shh, all is well, son. This isn't something you'll be tested on." 

"No matter how tempting I might find the prospect..." 

Olivier moans — "Please, Papa, *test* me —" 

Papa growls — 

"Shh, not yet, not yet," Uncle Treville says, and kisses Olivier at the base of his spine again. "We were telling you about control, and sense, and how we've learned them." 

"Yes — yes, please —" 

"It took time and practice, son." 

"Yes —" 

"It took... mm. Many mistakes were made," Uncle Treville says, and *kisses* the top of Olivier's cleft —

"Ah!" 

"Good boy," Papa says. 

"Painful mistakes. Painful and *scarring* mistakes — for all of us," Uncle Treville says, and kisses his way down — 

Down and down — 

"Please! *Please*!" 

"You like that," Papa says. 

"I — I — yes, Papa!" 

"You like being kissed there," Papa says, and his eyes are wide and *hard*. 

"Yes, Papa —" 

And Uncle Treville *hums*, right against Olivier's *hole* — 

"Nngh —" 

Papa's lips part — 

Uncle Treville kisses him *hard* — 

"AHN!" 

"Reynard would talk about your Uncle's love for this act, son." 

"Nuh — mn — yes, Papa?" 

"Reynard would talk... seemingly *incessantly*... it took me very little time to realize, on a deep level, that Reynard was obsessed with the way your Uncle used his mouth." 

"I —" 

And Uncle Treville *laps* at his hole once — 

"Oh, God —" 

Again — 

"Oh — *oh* —" 

*Again* — 

"*Please*!" 

Papa pants, growls — "Reynard would speak with needy *relish* about watching your Uncle take the strongest, most *aggressive* young boys *apart* with his mouth —" 

"I — I am — I can't —" 

And Uncle Treville slips his tongue *in* — 

Olivier *wails* — 

"And this, of course, was *before* he could lengthen his tongue, before he could shift his muzzle to better fit between a boy's arsecheeks —" 

Uncle Treville's tongue just goes — so far — 

So long — 

So long and so deep and so — 

Olivier wails *again* — 

"I want to fuck you for *hours*," Papa says, and Olivier clenches, writhes — 

He can't — 

Uncle Treville is holding him so *tightly* — 

He can't *get* anywhere — 

His cock is jerking and leaking — 

Leaking so — 

His *mouth* is watering, and he doesn't even know — but that's a lie. He wants his Papa in his mouth again, and Uncle Treville, too, somehow — 

Papa growls — 

Uncle Treville growls *into* him — 

They can hear — 

They *know* — 

They know *everything* — 

"I want to devour every secret thought you *have*," Papa says, and he's kneeling up at the head of the bed, cupping and squeezing his own cock, stroking and *strangling* it — 

So big — 

So *big* — 

"I will not fuck your mouth *again*," Papa says — 

Olivier moans *desperately* — 

"That — is not for me." 

"Everything is for you!" 

And Papa is just — working his cock so hard, so *fast*, staring into Olivier's *eyes* — 

And then Uncle Treville does — does *something* with his tongue — 

*Whips* it or *flexes* it — 

Olivier can't *see* anymore — 

He wants to *see* — 

(All right, we'll try something else,) Uncle Treville says, and he's happy, he's laughing, he's — 

He's rumbling *aloud* — 

Into Olivier's *arse* — 

And then he starts to *thrust*, starts to *fuck*, starts to — 

To —

Olivier grunts and shudders and — 

Uncle Treville is *having* him, having him with his tongue, in and in, in and in, and Olivier can see again, but he can't stop grunting, drooling, *shaking*, *working* himself back against Uncle Treville's *face* — 

Oh. Oh, but he can see Papa stroking himself so *violently* — 

He wants to lick him, soothe him with his mouth — 

He wants to scrape his *teeth* if Papa likes that — 

Papa cries *out* — 

Squeezes himself so *hard* — 

Does that mean he's close?

(It means he's close to fucking your lovely *face*, son.) 

I want — 

(Shh, not yet,) Uncle Treville says, and fucks him more, more, and just the thought of how *far* that tongue is going — 

Just the thought — 

He's — 

He's shoving himself *back* against Uncle Treville's *face* — 

(You're *riding* my face, son.) 

Olivier grunts — 

Cries out — 

But he can't stop — 

He can't even — his rhythm didn't even *stutter*. He needs this, he needs more of this, more of his Uncle's long, strong *tongue* — 

(You can have it,) he says, and *whips* it again — 

Olivier's *vision* stutters again — 

He — 

Please, Uncle, *please*, I have to see my Papa, I have to — 

"No. No, you *don't*," Papa says, and *grips* the back of Olivier's head — 

Pushes him *down* — 

Olivier *shouts* — 

"I need your pleasure," Papa says. "I need your — your *noise*. Brother, *have* him." 

(With pleasure,) Uncle Treville says, and growls — 

And growls so *deep* — 

Olivier is *quivering* so deep in his *belly* — 

Olivier is *sobbing* for it — 

For — 

And then Uncle Treville starts whipping and flexing and *curling* his tongue, stretching it so far *in* — 

Olivier sobs *louder* — 

Drools on the *pillow* — 

"Oh — *God*. More, son. *More*!" 

He doesn't know he doesn't — 

But then Uncle Treville *growls* again, and it makes Olivier clench around that wriggling tongue, that — strong and so — 

Wet, now, wet and strong and — 

*In* and Olivier's sobbing and sobbing and *yelling* — 

So loud — 

He's making so much *noise* — 

And then Papa *roars* again, and that sound — his fist is moving so *fast* on his cock! 

He must be — 

But then something wet and hot *smacks* Olivier's cheek — 

Papa yanks his head *up* again — 

Olivier cries *out* — 

"Close your *eyes*!" 

Olivier *obeys* — 

And Papa's spend smacks his face again — 

Again — 

So hot so wet so — 

Olivier licks and licks and — 

Uncle Treville scrapes *his* teeth over Olivier's *hole* — 

Olivier *screams* — 

And Papa's spend is on his tongue, his lips, his *mouth* — 

Olivier slurps and — 

Papa shoves him back *down* — "I need you — I *need* you!" 

Papa grips the back of his *neck* — "I need you so *badly* —" 

Uncle Treville *kisses* his hole — 

Olivier screams again — 

Uncle Treville *sucks* — 

Olivier screams out his *air* — 

Coughs — 

Gasps — 

And then there are two big, rough hands on his cock, not fumbling, not awkward — 

Twining together — 

Squeezing — 

(Oh, brother, oh, brother, *yes* —) 

(Like this, Laurent —) 

And they squeeze him *again* — 

And Olivier is sobbing and tossing — tossing his head like a horse — 

Spattering the pillow with spend and drool — 

He can't — 

He — 

Uncle Treville is still *kissing* him — 

And they're both working him, squeezing and *stroking* — 

Again — 

Again — 

Olivier hears himself *howl* — 

Papa squeezes the back of his neck *viciously* with his other hand — 

So *good* — 

(Do exactly this to little Thomas when next you have the opportunity,) Uncle Treville says, and sucks a hard and wet and deep — 

Kiss — 

Papa and Uncle Treville stroke him *fast* — 

And everything in Olivier ignites, everything in him burns, *burns*, and nothing has ever been so —

So *hot* — 

He's yelling and begging and — 

And *begging*, and he doesn't want to stop, he never wants to stop, he never wants his Papa and Uncle to go without the knowledge that he needs them, needs them to touch him, hurt him, squeeze him, *fuck* him — 

Please *fuck* him — 

He spurts — 

He spurts all over their *hands* — 

Is he screaming? 

(Beautifully...) 

He doesn't stop, he won't stop, he won't — 

He gasps — 

He screams more — 

He *spurts* more, and *more* — 

So *good*, so — 

"MMPH!" 

And that's — that's Papa's *cock* — 

"Just — just for a *moment*," Papa says, petting him and stroking him and *not* thrusting or — or anything — 

He's just *resting* his cock in Olivier's mouth — 

Petting Olivier's messy *face* — 

And then Uncle Treville squeezes Olivier's cock again — 

Olivier *groans* — 

Papa *spasms* in his *mouth* — 

*Papa* groans — 

And Uncle Treville hums into Olivier's *arse*. 

"That — mm. That is a rather *obnoxious* sound, brother." 

Uncle Treville makes it *again* — 

Olivier clenches and squirms and *flexes* — 

*Moans* — 

Papa pushes *deeper* into his mouth — 

Olivier tries to *swallow* — and the pain is intense, shocking and — 

He draws back — 

He *tries* to draw back, but Papa won't let him — 

And then Uncle Treville is releasing him, pulling back from his arse — 

"Laurent." 

"I — don't need him to swallow. I don't. I *don't*." 

"You *do*, but you can accept him not doing it so long as he keeps you."

"Yes. Yes, please." 

Uncle Treville strokes Olivier's back in long, firm motions. "All right, son?" 

Whatever Papa needs! 

Papa groans, hands *shaking* on him — 

"What your Papa needs, first and foremost, is for you to be all right, son." 

I — 

"Shh. That means that you don't hurt yourself *badly* — *wrongly* — to please him." 

Olivier moans. 

It — 

There's something so *attractive* — 

And then Papa pulls out, sudden and *rough* — 

"*Mm* —" 

Papa sits back against the other side of the headboard, panting and *hard* — 

And Uncle Treville cups the back of Olivier's neck. "Be *careful*, son." 

"What —" And *then* he realizes what he'd done. "I... thought too loudly about... being hurt. Wanting to be hurt." 

"Precisely," Uncle Treville says. "Happily, your Papa had just spent himself blind — and bought himself a little control." 

Olivier frowns. "It isn't only the acts that are desirable? It's the fact that you *would* be hurting me, Papa?" 

Uncle Treville *squeezes* the back of Olivier's neck — "Son..." 

"No, that's a reasonable and important question," Papa says, and smiles wryly at both of them. "I believe that sixteen years ago, it was only the acts I wanted. Only... the lovemaking. I didn't know what all the acts were, I just knew that I wanted to touch, and be touched in turn." 

Olivier nods. 

"Now... now that I've hurt my loved ones so many times, and seen their reactions to *being* hurt..." Papa licks his lips. "I want to cause pain. I want to... I want to do it again, and again, and again." 

Uncle Treville growls, and moves slightly *between* Olivier and Papa — 

"You need not, brother. Your lead is tight, secure, and welcome in this case. I want to cause pain where it's welcome —" 

Olivier opens his mouth — 

"Where it's known to bring *pleasure*, son. You have no true knowledge of that, yet, and you will not gain knowledge of it in... this way." 

Olivier swallows — and does a bad job of hiding a wince. 

Papa smiles at him ruefully. "We already know that *that* is a pain which, at the very least, you will need time to *adjust* to." 

And Olivier *pauses* — 

That... 

Uncle Treville hums. "You hadn't thought about that, son? That there could be other chances?"

"I... I always imagine finality." 

"If there is anything with as *little* finality, as much *flexibility*, as sexuality, I don't know what it could be," Papa says, laughing softly and stroking Olivier's mouth. "You must be prepared, with sexuality, for your mind to *change*. For your *partner's* mind to change. For your *other* partner's mind to change. For your mind to change *again* midway through the act — whatever act you're *performing*. For... well, consider this: I had every intention of *only* having you lick my cock, and I fully expected to spend for that. And yet...?" 

"And yet... we all did much more." 

"That's right, we did," Uncle Treville says. "If you go into every sexual encounter expecting *something* unexpected to occur — at *least* one unexpected thing — you'll be in good shape." 

Olivier licks his lips. "I'll... be given the opportunity to experiment with pain? Extensively?" 

"Yes," Papa says. 

"Oh, yes," Uncle Treville says, and strokes over the curve of Olivier's arse — 

Somehow *promisingly* — 

(Somehow...?) 

Olivier *blinks* — but. Uncle Treville had — had *teased* him with the suggestion of a *hiding*. 

(That I did...) 

And that could be...

Olivier swallows. "You... could do that with your bare hand. On my bare skin." 

Papa grunts — 

Uncle Treville rumbles. "Is that what you'd like to try, son...?" And. He *splays* his hand on Olivier's arse — 

He — 

Right *there* — 

His hand is so *warm* — 

Uncle Treville has *always* been warmer than other men — 

Than *anyone* — 

But right now...

Right now, he feels *hot*. 

(I'll make you feel even hotter, son.) 

Olivier groans and nods and — "Please. Please — give me a hiding. Please hurt me." 

Papa moans — 

And Uncle Treville growls. "Absolutely, son. But I'm going to do you one better." 

"Yes, Uncle?" 

"Oh, yes. Oil, please, brother." 

Papa makes a *guttural* sound — and *claps* the small jar in Uncle Treville's palm. 

"Thank you, brother." 

"You're *welcome*. Quickly — *safely*, but *quickly*." 

"You may have noticed that I'm just a *bit* hard over here, too," Uncle Treville says, laughing under his breath and — 

And that sound — 

"Are you... slicking your fingers?" 

"That I am, son. I'm going to spank you while you keep my fingers *nice* and cozy and warm." 

"In-inside — oh — *oh* —" And Olivier clenches — 

He's still wet with Uncle Treville's *saliva* — 

He can't keep from *squirming* — but what is that going to feel like with oil? With *fingers*? 

"Let's find out." 

"Oh, please!" 

But Uncle Treville pauses with one hand on Olivier's arsecheek — 

Papa *frowns* — 

"What — what is it?" 

"We can feel that you're... worried about something," Papa says. "What is it." 

Olivier blinks — but — 

But of course they'd know. 

(Everything, son. Everything.) 

"Tell us," Papa says. 

"Yes, Papa. I — don't want to fail." 

"You won't." 

"I — but —" 

"How do you feel you will fail?" 

"By not... enjoying — or. Not properly." 

Papa's expression quirks — 

Uncle Treville rumbles — 

"Son. The first time your Uncle inserted his fingers into my fundament, I argued with him *vehemently* — and nearly obscenely — that anyone could find such a thing pleasurable." 

"I... oh." 

"*While* refusing to let me stop." 

*That's* reasonable — 

Uncle Treville *coughs* — 

"Well, it *was* reasonable, brother. You could hardly demonstrate your arguments if you weren't *demonstrating your arguments*." 

"Right, fine, anything you two lunatics say. *Olivier*. You *cannot* fail at this. You can't. You will *tell* us how you feel about what I'm doing when, and you will *show* us how you feel about it, and if it doesn't work? We'll try something else." 

"And —" 

"And try *this* again another day." 

And that... that's *good*, but...

Papa hums. "I've waited this long to fuck you, son," he says, and strokes Olivier's mouth again. "I can wait a bit longer, if I must." 

"Yes —" 

"Do *not* take this opportunity to vow to *lie* to us about enjoying what we do to you," Uncle Treville says. "For one thing, we'll *know*." 

"And, for another... it would be the soul of incorrectness." 

Olivier flushes... and hangs his head. "Yes, Papa. Yes, Uncle. I apologize." 

Papa growls — 

"And here I thought we'd have nothing to punish him for..."

"Oh. Brother..." 

"Indeed," Uncle Treville says, spreading Olivier with one hand and *rubbing* his hole with his slick fingers — 

"*Ahn* —" 

"Do you like that, son?" 

"Yes, Papa!" 

"Do you want more, or do you want him to simply oil your rim *enough* that he may push in with ease?" 

"I — whichever is *best*!" 

Uncle Treville rumbles. "I find, somehow, that I'm *impatient*," he says, and rubs Olivier around — 

And around — 

And then starts pushing *in* with one finger — 

Olivier moans — 

Breaks out in new *sweat* — 

"You're such a delicious boy, Olivier..." 

Olivier *whimpers* — 

"And you should feel free to make that sound as often as you can..." 

"Yes, Uncle — thank you, Uncle —" 

"And, as to the question of which approach is *best*," Papa says, and hitches himself up against the headboard in what looks to be a more permanent position — 

"For the time being," Uncle Treville says, with a laugh in his voice again — 

"For the time being, yes," Papa says — 

"*Oh*, yes," Uncle Treville says, and pushes deeper with his finger — 

Olivier *groans* — 

*Deeper* — 

"Please!" That — that was a less a word than an explosive burst of air — 

"And yet you made yourself understood," Papa says. "Good boy," he says, *fervently* — and his eyes are *intent*. 

His — 

He's *studying* Olivier — 

"We both are, son," Uncle Treville says — 

"We want to know everything about how you feel about this..." 

"I — I don't know!" 

"Does it hurt, son?" And Uncle Treville sounds curious, but not — not — 

"You already know it doesn't!" 

And Uncle Treville and Papa both laugh — 

And Uncle Treville rumbles, too. "And *you* do, too." 

"Oh — oh —"

"But it's strange, isn't it." 

"Yes — please —" 

"It feels..." And Uncle Treville *twists* his finger — 

"*Oh* —" 

"Perhaps a little wrong?" 

"I don't —" 

"You don't want to say that, son...?" And Papa is *smiling* — 

"Please, I want you to *fuck* me!" 

"But you don't know that, yet, son," Uncle Treville says, and twists his finger *again* — 

"Ahn — perhaps — perhaps if you moved your finger another *way* —" 

"Absolutely," Uncle Treville says, and starts to — 

To rock it back and forth — 

The motions are so *small* — 

There's — it's something like a *spark* —

Olivier isn't *certain*... 

"No, son?" 

"Please — please... longer motions?" 

Uncle Treville rumbles more. "Absolutely. Here," he says, and — 

And. 

Olivier's head feels heavy — 

And his cock is hardening again, *again* — 

He's moaning — 

Moaning so — 

"I'll remember that..." And Papa sounds so hungry... 

So — 

"Please..." 

"Please what, son? Mm? What do you want?" 

"I — more —" 

"Mm. That could mean a *few* things," Uncle Treville says. "But I don't think you're ready for another finger... or are you?" 

Olivier blushes hard. "I — don't know — you said you were impatient —" 

"Not that impatient, son. We won't hurt you that way." 

"Yes, Uncle —" 

"Do you want... harder? Or faster? Deeper?" 

"Please — please — all of that," Olivier says, and blushes even harder — 

Uncle Treville growls. "Good, good boy —" 

"Excellent boy," Papa says, and wets his lips — 

"Here," Uncle Treville says, and — 

And the rocking *thrusts* are so — 

Hard —

So hard and *deep*, deeper than his tongue had gone, and that's obvious, so obvious, he's being foolish — 

"Not at all, son. There is a profundity to sex which cannot be denied," Papa says — 

"*Precisely*," Uncle Treville says, and — 

Gives him fast, gives him hard, gives him *deep* — 

Again and again — 

Olivier *sobs* — 

He's hard, he's *hard* — 

It's so *good* — 

He's — 

He's going to *enjoy* being fucked! 

"You truly will," Uncle Treville says, "But let's try something slightly different." And then he pulls *out* —

"No — please —" 

"Shh, just for a moment. You need more oil for this." 

"Oh. Yes, Uncle. Please — please — I apologize —" 

"Shh, we like you eager. Don't we, Laurent." 

"Yes," Papa says, and he's intent again, quiet and staring and *hungry* — 

Olivier feels so red, so — 

So *flushed* — 

"You're dark with it, son," Uncle Treville say, spreading him and *pouring* a little oil on him — 

Olivier stays as still as he *can* — 

"Good boy... brave boy..." 

"I feel it... trickling *in*..."

"That's the benefit of oil over pomade, son," Uncle Treville says, releasing him — presumably to close the pot again. "Pomade *will* ease the way well enough — even for a virgin like you — but a good olive or hazelnut oil will always be better for this. It will stay slick longer, you'll ultimately need less of it, and it'll taste delicious after." 

Olivier *grunts* — 

And Papa hums. "I'm not sure he was prepared for *that* lesson, brother." 

"Start 'em early, that's what I always say," Uncle Treville says, spreading Olivier again and *rubbing* his hole with his callused fingers — 

"Unh — nuh —" 

"Oil also lets you feel *that* *very* well." 

"Yes — *yes* —" 

"Are you ready for our next experiment?" 

"Please!" 

"Here it comes," Uncle Treville says, and pushes in — again with one finger — and doesn't stop until it's all the way in, all the way — 

So *deep* — 

Olivier *shivers* — 

*Moans* — 

"Are you ready?" 

"Yes, Uncle!" 

And then Uncle Treville pulls *out* almost all the way and thrusts in *fast*, slick, *hot* — 

"AHN —" 

He *pauses* — 

He — 

"Please! Again!" 

"Good *boy*," Uncle Treville says, and does it again, does it *again*, makes it so — 

So slick and hot and *fast* — 

So *much* — 

Olivier can't help but rock into it, hang his head, take — 

(Yes, take it, son, *take* it...) 

Papa — 

(Don't *stop*.) 

He doesn't, he can't, he *won't* — 

It feels too good — 

Too — 

Too *sleek* — 

There's so — 

It feels like his body was *made* for it, like this perfect slide of it is — 

There's barely any *friction* — 

There — 

"Be still for a moment, son." 

"No — no, please —" 

"Shh, do it." 

Olivier sobs and *obeys* — 

Uncle Treville does that — that *twisting* thing that Olivier doesn't like quite so — but then there's something else, something — 

Bright or loud or heavy — 

It comes *again* — 

Olivier *barks* a cry — 

It comes *again* and he *yells* — 

He — he beats at the *pillow* — 

"I taste your pleasure, son. I taste your..." And Uncle Treville *growls* — 

And Papa is *stroking* himself again, stroking *slowly* — 

"Tell me, son. Tell me how you feel about having your pleasure-button played with." 

"I — I want more!" 

"More than this?" And this time Olivier can tell that Uncle Treville is crooking — 

And then it's that heavy feeling, cock-heavy, dripping, he's *groaning* — 

"Or should I fuck you while I'm doing it?" 

And then — 

And then Uncle Treville is pressing with his finger and thrusting and thrusting and Olivier *howls* — 

He can't — 

He *howls* — 

"Oh, *son*..." 

"Please fuck me!" 

"I think..." And Uncle Treville growls. "I think you're ready for another finger —" 

"Please, yes! Please more!" 

"Remember not to *lie* about your pain. Punishing you for that will hurt us all and take valuable *time*." 

Olivier *groans*. "I'll be honest! Please — please give me more!" 

"Oh, good boy. Good — here it comes," Uncle Treville says, and pulls out most of the way — and immediately starts pushing in with two. It's —

It's — Olivier can feel the *stretch* of it, but it's *not* painful. It's strange, and it's making him sweat, and he isn't sure he *likes* it — 

Uncle Treville pauses — "But it's not painful." 

"No, Uncle, please! Please don't stop!" 

"Good boy," Uncle Treville says, and starts to *rock* his fingers before they're all the way in —

"Oh. Oh..." 

Papa *grins* — 

Uncle Treville *rumbles*. "Better, son?" 

"Yes — *yes* —" 

"More?" 

"Please! And — and deeper!" 

"Wait just a moment for that," Uncle Treville says, and rocks — 

And rocks — 

And — 

Olivier groans — 

And feels himself *loosen*. It's — it's almost *panic*-inducing — 

It doesn't feel like something that should *happen* —

"You're all right, son..." 

"I — I don't want to make a *mess* —" 

"You won't," Papa says. "It's much more common to have messes occur — *if* they occur, which is *not* especially common, in my studies — after you've been fucked. When, in other words, you can get to a chamberpot." 

"Just so," Uncle Treville says. "But it's *very* common to feel... loose. Out of control. Cut off *from* your control." 

"Oh, yes!" 

"Here. This may help," Uncle Treville says, and *then* pushes deeper with his two fingers — 

Olivier shudders and whimpers and *clenches* — 

And feels — perfect.

Feels full, feels — 

Feels warm and full and — 

"Oh, please, *please*!" 

"Yes, son?" 

"Please, I want your cock! I want both of your cocks!" 

Uncle Treville growls *loudly* — "You'll get them. I promise you that." 

"Please please —" 

"Do you know how to make yourself open for me?" 

"I... I don't..." 

"Breathe. Nice and slow." 

"I —" But he won't say that he can't. If Uncle Treville is ordering him to do so, he *must* be able to. He — tries. 

He tries and he *keeps* trying, and, eventually, he manages to take a deep, shuddering breath — 

And another — 

And another — 

And *another* — and then he cries *out*, because his body flexes *open* — 

The strange and out-of-control feeling comes *back* — 

"Shh, son, it's all right, you're all right —" 

"We've got you," Papa says — 

"We *won't* let you go," Uncle Treville says, and starts — starts *fucking* him with his fingers again, starts — 

Oh, but the thrusts are so long — 

They're so long and so hot and so *good* — 

Olivier's skin is prickling all over with even *more* sweat — 

He can't *breathe* anymore — 

He — 

He's groaning and *shoving* himself *back* onto Uncle Treville's fingers, and the out-of-control feelings don't matter anymore, or they're part of this, a good part of this, so wild, so hungry, he's so *hungry* — 

He *wants* — 

He wants to be *filled* — 

"You have to be looser for me, son," Uncle Treville says, and spreads his fingers — 

That makes Olivier *burn* inside, makes him *shout* — 

It's so right — 

It's so *good* — 

He wants *more* — 

He wants it right *now* — 

"I have a thought," Papa says, and kneels up again, "that could allow us all what we desire faster." And he cups the back of Olivier's neck and squeezes — 

Olivier moans — 

"You have to be open for us, son." 

"Yes — yes, Papa —" 

"You have to *give* us your body, son." 

Olivier *grunts* — 

There's nothing he wants to do *more* — 

"Please tell me — tell me *how* —" 

"Just give. Just... open." 

"Please —" 

"Breathe. Open. *Relax*." 

Olivier feels himself slump *despite* himself — 

"Good. Now breathe slowly. Evenly. Don't speak, no matter what." 

"Laurent —" 

"He can communicate with us silently, if need be. Breathe, Olivier. Breathe for us precisely the way you would to prepare for a spar..." 

Olivier breathes — 

Breathes and tries — 

Tries to *ignore* what Uncle Treville is doing to him, how he's fucking him, making him feel — 

"You will *not* ignore him. You will make everything he's doing to you part of your tapestry. Breathe. Feel. Exist. You would not ignore a wound on your leg were you sparring; you would take it into account so as to better tailor your performance. This is precisely the same." 

More pleasurable, more — 

More *devastating* — 

"I am *shattered* by your Uncle's touch every time. I am *destroyed* by your Mother's. And then? I am made new. You must allow this to happen. Breathe. Breathe." 

Olivier breathes — 

He makes everything — 

Every thrust is part of him — 

Every — spark and flare and — 

He feels himself *open* — 

He groans — 

He quivers and groans and drops his head *lower* — 

"You must continue breathing, son." 

Yes, Papa, yes — 

"Do it for me." 

Yes, I — I — I only need a moment — 

"To feel your Uncle's touch?"

Please, it's so good, so perfect, so — hard — 

"His cock will be thick inside you. Hot. His knot will plug your hole and —" 

Olivier shouts and clenches and shouts more — 

Sobs — 

No, no, that's not right, he's supposed to breathe, to — 

But. 

But Uncle Treville isn't stopping, Uncle Treville is still *fucking* him, shoving *in* with his two fingers and opening him by force — 

Olivier flexes *open* — 

"Good *boy*," Uncle Treville growls — 

"Breathe for us," Papa says. "Breathe for us, and your Uncle will give you another finger faster than you can imagine." 

Oh — God — 

Olivier *gulps* air before he can think — 

Chokes and moans and moans — 

There's a quiver in the — the *rim* of his hole — 

He wants to be *opened* — 

But he has to breathe. 

He has to — to *take* the incredible *heat* of Uncle Treville's thrusts, the power of them, the — 

The *thrill* — 

The way they make him pant and groan and — 

No, no, the way they make him *need* to make noise, so much noise, the way they make him so hungry, so needy, he's on his knees but it doesn't seem like *enough* — 

He has to take it *all* — 

And breathe — 

And — 

Breathe — 

And make himself into the boy they need, the boy who's just that hungry, just that — 

He breathes — 

He *breathes*, and he can be open, he can give, he can give everything he *is*, he can — 

Loosen — 

"Perfect," Uncle Treville growls, and he pulls out right away, comes back with *three* right away, and this time the discomfort is a promise, the strangeness is a *tease*, and Olivier's heart is pounding so hard, so *fast* — 

He needs it — 

He needs all of Uncle Treville's *fingers* — 

"*Take* them," Uncle Treville says, and pushes them deep, *deep* — 

*Twists* them, and Olivier prepares to *endure* — but Uncle Treville's knuckles rub against Olivier's pleasure-button and he *screams*, instead, pants and screams, and he's leaking so much, clawing at the pillow, please, again, please, *again*!

Uncle Treville growls again and — 

And does it — 

Olivier *howls* — 

There are tears in his eyes — 

He can't — 

Uncle Treville does it *again*, and now he isn't *stopping*, he's thrusting and twisting at once, thrusting and — and *screwing* his fingers in, and Olivier can't help spreading his legs wider, grinding his face into the pillow, flexing *open* — 

So *open* — 

"Oh, son..." 

"Good boy..." 

"Look how perfect you are, taking this —" 

"Just a little further, son —" 

"Breathe, and —" 

"— open you —" 

"— fuck you *hard* — 

"— won't *stop* —" 

"— then I'll take my turn..." 

Olivier *clenches*, dazed and needy and *biting* the pillow through his own screams — 

Papa *squeezes* his neck — "*Open*." 

He flexes open immediately, choking and gasping and — 

And Uncle Treville is — is *reaming* him, and it sounds like one of Porthos's stories, *feels* like it, tastes — 

The sweetness on the back of his tongue — 

The need for a *cock* — 

Papa *growls* — 

"Just — a little — *longer*," Uncle Treville says, and there's a fourth finger at his rim, and Olivier is blind with it, needy, so *needy*, so *needy* — 

Nothing could be *better* — 

"Just *wait*," Uncle Treville says, and he's pushing, he's *pushing*, and it's so much, it *hurts* — 

He has to tell them it *hurts* — 

He doesn't want it to *stop* — 

"Shh," Papa says, "Tell us how *much* it hurts." 

"Yes," Uncle Treville says, and he's *panting* — "Does it burn? Does it ache?" 

"Both! Both of those things!" 

"Is it a *pleasurable* pain, at all?" And *Papa* sounds almost calm — 

"I — please, I want more of it! More of the pain!" 

"I'm calm because I know, with absolute certainty, that I'm going to get precisely what I want tonight," Papa says. "He won't tear." 

"Laurent —" 

"You know he won't. He is not so in love with pain as his mother — or myself. You've done a thorough job of stretching him, brother." 

Uncle Treville *growls* — and the hand he has on Olivier's hip *shakes* before he *clutches* Olivier hard enough to bruise. 

Olivier's cock *jerks* — 

"Brother," Papa says. "Take him." 

"Ah — God —" 

And then Uncle Treville pushes deeper with his four fingers — 

Olivier whines, cock jerking and spattering his chest and belly and undoubtedly the duvet — 

He flexes *open* — 

"Oh, *son*," Uncle Treville says, growling and pushing deeper, *twisting* — 

Olivier *shouts* — 

Tries to spread *wider* — 

"No, stay *right* there," Papa says — 

Olivier *stills* — 

And Uncle Treville — takes him. Twisting and *thrusting*, twisting and *thrusting*, in and *in* until Olivier's sobbing again, tossing his head again, and it has to be all right to push back into it, to — 

To give himself — 

You can't be *still* for a spar, you have to move with the fight, to give ground as needed, to take as demanded — 

To — 

But he has to give here, everything — 

He has to *give*, to give everything he *is*, to open — 

To — 

"*Now*," Papa says, and Uncle Treville snarls — 

Stills — 

Please no — 

"Shh, son, it's all right," Papa says, stroking into his hair, his lank and sweaty — 

He's so dirty — 

"You're perfect," Papa says. "You've done everything correctly. It's almost time for your reward." 

Please — oh please — 

"Shh, just be still now and breathe, son." 

Yes, Papa, always — anything — 

"Shh..." And Papa strokes him, pets him — 

His hands are so big, so warm and dry, so *strong* — 

And Uncle Treville is *clutching* him with his own big hand, clutching him while pulling *out* with the other — 

So slowly — 

It feels like he's taking everything that makes Olivier who he *is* — 

"Nothing of any import, son. Simply breathe. This part will be over soon enough." 

He breathes. 

He *breathes* — 

He listens to Uncle Treville growling behind him — 

He feels him *shaking* — 

Is Uncle Treville losing control? 

Olivier has never *seen* that — 

Olivier has never even *heard* of that — 

"There's a good reason for that, son," Papa says, and he's laughing softly. "Your Uncle is close to the end of his tether, but..." 

But? 

"*Treville*." 

And Uncle Treville *grunts* — and stops shaking. 

And stops *growling* — 

And laughs *darkly*. "Thank you kindly, brother." 

"You're quite welcome," Papa says. "Finish pulling out. I have a towel for you right here." 

"So you do," Uncle Treville says, and — slips out — 

Olivier gasps — 

And Uncle Treville rests his dry hand on Olivier's lower back for a long moment. "All right, son?" 

"Yes — yes, please — I don't want to wait —" 

"Then you won't for long," Uncle Treville says, rubbing a small circle and then releasing him. 

Papa is right there to cup Olivier's neck again. "Your Uncle will fuck you in just a moment. He's going to do it hard, and he's going to knot you —" 

"Oh — *please* —" 

"Have your brothers told you much about knotting, son? Have they prepared you?" 

"They... they've tried." 

Uncle Treville hums — and spreads Olivier with one hand again. "You've not let them?" 

"It seemed — incorrect —" 

"You'll know better next time," Papa says. 

"Yes, Papa —" 

"The reason why I prepared you so thoroughly is so you could *take* my knot, son, which has quite a bit more *girth* than my cock." 

"Oh, I —" 

"Shh," Uncle Treville says. "It's time for a practical demonstration."

"Yes, Uncle!" 

"I — fuck, I love you so *much*, son. I love you and you *must* always remember that, because, despite appearances, I *am* losing my mind. But I won't injure you. I won't ever." And Uncle Treville rubs at the small of Olivier's back almost *restlessly*. 

"Yes, Uncle, I know —" 

"Now. *Now*," he says, and starts — 

Oh — 

Oh, his cock slips in so *easily* — 

"You see? You're going to enjoy that in a moment —"

"I already do!" 

Uncle Treville rumbles. "Good boy. *Good* boy —" 

"And I love you! I don't — I don't mean to be *awkward* —" 

"Shh, shh, all is well," Uncle Treville says, and cups both of Olivier's hips — 

He's so deep — 

So *hot* — 

So — 

And Papa *grips* him by the hair — 

*Oh* — 

"Oh, son... you're even more beautiful this way..." 

"With — with Uncle Treville *inside* me — oh — *ohn* —" 

"Did he spasm, son?" 

"Yes!" 

"Here," Uncle Treville says, and *flexes* his cock — 

Olivier grunts and *clenches* — 

And Uncle Treville snarls and *bucks* — 

Olivier *gasps* — 

And gasps *again* for the feel of the hot, throbbing *thing* slapping against his *hole* — 

"My. *Knot*." 

Olivier flushes hard and *pants* — 

It feels *huge* — 

It feels — 

It feels *impossible* — 

"You'll take it, son," Papa says, and strokes him. "I promise that your Uncle has made you capable." 

"Yes —" And he means to call out 'Papa', to give his obedience, but Uncle Treville bucks again — 

Grinds — 

Olivier *chokes* — 

Uncle Treville pulls out and *shoves* in — 

Olivier gasps for the *incredible* slick *heat* of it — 

The strange sleek *friction* — 

He moans — 

He *chokes* on a moan, because the next thrust happens fast — 

And the next happens faster than *that* — 

And — 

"Lift. Your. *Arse*," Uncle Treville says, and Olivier's doing it before his mind even parses the words, before he can think, before — "*Perfect*," he says, and the next thrust *rams* against Olivier's pleasure-button — 

Olivier *screams* — 

Uncle Treville grinds and grinds and *grinds* — 

His knot seems so fat, so hot, so — 

He pulls out and rams in *again* — 

Olivier *screams* again, and he can't — 

It scrambles everything, changes — 

He can't — 

He can't put it into any context, can't move with it, can't — 

"Just take it, son. It's yours," Papa says, and he wants, he — 

"You've *earned* it," Uncle Treville says, and rams in again — 

Again — 

Again, and Olivier howls for it, tries to —

Tries to find the part of him which *thought* it knew what pleasure was, what losing *control* was — 

And Papa is laughing softly, Papa is holding him *up* — 

Uncle Treville is grinding again, opening him with his cock, opening and — 

"Enjoying you. Enjoying your sweet, musky *arse*." 

Olivier *sobs* — 

"Here, son," Papa says, and pushes him down to the pillow, the pillow that's wet with his own drool and Papa's *spend* —

Olivier *bites* — 

And then Uncle Treville starts — starts ramming his way *in* again, *punishing* his pleasure-button, and Olivier bites his way through scream after scream after — 

And Uncle Treville speeds *up* — 

Starts — 

He growls and fucks Olivier fast, so *fast* — 

Olivier clenches and chokes and *howls* — and spurts all over his own chest, his own *face* — 

He can't stop *howling* — 

Uncle Treville doesn't slow *down* — 

He and Papa are *speaking*, but — 

He can't — 

He *can't* — 

Every time he *clenches*, he *howls* again, and his cock just spurts and *spurts* — 

"— milking his little button —" 

"— want that, *want* that —" 

"— your *turn* —" 

"— his flush, so complete, so —" 

"Yours — just the *same* when you let me *have* you — nnh — *NNH* —" 

"Oh, brother..." And Papa sounds almost reverent — 

And Uncle Treville is snarling and *shoving* and — 

And Olivier's body feels limp and pliant and ready, ready for anything, everything — 

"And *this*," Uncle Treville says, spreading him *wide* with both hands and starting to *push* — 

Starting — 

Oh, his knot — 

His — 

His massive *knot*, and a part of Olivier *wants* to clench, but he's too spent to remember how, too — 

Too *limp* — 

"Stay *open*," Uncle Treville *growls* — 

And Olivier knows that means he needs to breathe. He does it, he does it, and he feels the huge, hot frontal curve of Uncle Treville's knot slipping in. 

It feels — inexorable. Inescapable. 

It feels like something that will change *everything* — even more than everything else this weekend has — and Olivier is so grateful that his Papa is holding his head down, that he's being *allowed* to keep his head down — 

Please, please, *please* let him stay *down* — 

"Of course, son. Simply stay there and breathe," Papa says, gentle and hungry at once. 

Thank you, Papa, *thank* you — 

"I'll give you *everything*." 

"And I. Will give you everything *else*," Uncle Treville says, and pushes — 

And pushes, and it's so big, so big, and it *hurts* — 

"You can take it, son. It won't be that much longer." 

Yes, Papa, yes, Papa, *please* — 

And Uncle Treville is growling and growling and dripping sweat on Olivier's *back* — 

Panting — 

"You feel so bloody *perfect* —" 

Oh — 

"You feel so — I'm so *grateful* for this!" 

*Oh* — 

"My perfect son... there can be no greater gift than that of my sons' pleasure," Papa says. 

"Please! *Anything*! I'll give —" But he can't finish that thought because he's screaming, *screaming* — 

The knot is so *big* — 

It's — 

"Oh — oh, son... you almost have it..." 

He tries to *stop* screaming — 

He feels like he's being split *open* — and then he doesn't. 

And then he feels — full. Impossibly *full*. 

Just — 

He feels as though, if he tried to take a breath — 

"*Don't* try," Uncle Treville says, and *thrusts* — 

"UNH —" 

But — it was so short, so — 

So rough and hard and *short* — 

"He can't pull out, son. He can't go anywhere," Papa says. "And neither can you."

Tied. He's — 

For a moment, there's only *panic* —

What if —!

But there's no *thought* after that one, nothing to *counter* the incredible fullness; the heat; the *throb* within him that is and isn't his own; Uncle Treville's panted growls; Uncle Treville's big, rough hands all over him, so possessive, so — 

Uncle Treville wraps his *arms* around him — 

Around his chest — 

Like — 

"A dog, son...?" And there's a *laugh* in his Papa's voice — 

But Olivier can't respond to it before Uncle Treville bites his *ear* — 

Olivier *yelps* — 

Uncle Treville *grips* his chest — "I told you that you were mine now. It's. It's time you learn. What that means," he says, and bites the back of Olivier's *neck* — 

Olivier *gasps* — 

And Uncle Treville — starts — 

Starts *rutting* into him, growling and growling and just — 

It doesn't stop — 

It doesn't — 

He doesn't pause for *anything*, and it's *impossibly* animal, impossibly rough and so — 

Olivier blushes and moans and flexes open, or tries to, but he's already as open as he *can* be, already *held* open by Uncle Treville's massive *knot*, and every rut *slams* it against Olivier's pleasure-button, every rut is blinding, hot, so fast — 

So hard and *fast* — 

Olivier can't *help* but imagine being taken by the dog he's seen at his Papa's side — 

The dog he's seen his Papa stroking, petting, burying his fingers in the dog's ruff — 

So possessive. 

So — 

And it couldn't be so different than this, could it? It couldn't be so much rougher, so much — 

Harder — 

It's so hot — 

It's so *hot*, and every time that huge knot moves even a *little* bit, Olivier groans in his sore throat, croaks for it, tries to scream but can't get the *breath*. He — 

He's earned the dog, *too*, hasn't he? He can *take* — 

"Your mother loves to do just that, son," Papa says, and he doesn't sound calm, anymore — just hungry — 

And Uncle Treville isn't making *words* — not aloud — 

(Not much. In here. Either. Oh, you beautiful *boy*...) 

Please — please, both of you — 

(Do you want. The *dog*.) 

"*Treville*." 

And Uncle Treville snarls and growls low, growls hungry, fucks Olivier *harder* — 

Olivier can't — 

Can't *think* — 

(Don't think. Just feel. Feel what you *want*.) 

And Olivier is thinking of his mother, thinking of her naked, covered in scratches from a dog's sharp claws, bleeding from bites — 

Mounted — 

The dog is so *big* — 

Uncle Treville *howls*, short and *sharp* — 

Clutches him *tighter* — 

Olivier's cock *jerks* — 

"Oh, son. The first time I dreamed of that, I spent before my hand reached my cock." 

And Uncle Treville is licking him frantically now, nipping and licking and *biting* without breaking the skin, and the thrusts are so — 

So *fast* — 

Olivier is *grunting* like an animal — 

(Beautiful. Little. *Animal*.) 

Yours — 

And then Uncle Treville's *knot* flexes inside him — 

Olivier *whines* — 

He's sweating, slick, he can't — 

He can *smell* himself, smell everything, so *animal*, so *animal*, and he wants to ride Uncle Treville's cock, wants to take it better, be *better*, have — 

"Shoulder," Papa says, *confusingly* — 

And then it isn't, because Uncle Treville is biting him hard, biting him deep, *painfully* — 

Olivier can smell his own *blood* — 

Olivier's cock *spasms* — 

And then Uncle Treville *howls* into the *wound* — and there's heat and wetness in his *arse*. It. 

He's spending. 

He's — 

Oh. 

*Oh* — 

He's still *fucking* Olivier and he's spending and he *yanks* Olivier *upright* into a sprawl over his *lap* — 

"Good boys, both of you," Papa says, and grips Olivier's *cock* — 

Olivier doesn't have the *air* to shout, or to do more than whimper and take in more and more panted *sips* of air as Uncle Treville *ruts* into his own spend and Papa — 

Oh, Papa *kisses* him, hard and deep, while *working* Olivier's cock and — 

Oh, and his *balls* — 

Olivier *moans* — 

Uncle Treville is still rutting up and *up* into Olivier's arse — 

He finally breaks the bite to howl into the *air* — 

Papa breaks the kiss to lick at the *wound* — 

The *healing* wound that *zings* through him and makes him jerk and *writhe* in their arms, their powerful hands — 

They don't stop — 

They don't *stop* — 

Uncle Treville slumps for a *moment* — and then grips Olivier's hips and starts *bouncing* Olivier on his *knot* — 

Olivier *screams* — 

"I will spend for that sound in my *dreams*," Papa says, and *massages* Olivier's balls.

Olivier doesn't know what to do with his *hands* — 

"Cup. Cup your Papa's. Don't try to guide them," Uncle Treville says, panting and *squeezing* him, *having* him —

Olivier obeys, nods — 

He doesn't try to speak — 

He doesn't try to — to *think* — 

He can't — 

Papa is so *intent* — 

He never looks away from Olivier's *face* — 

"Every moment of this is *vital*," Papa growls, *squeezing* Olivier's cock — 

So hard — 

So — 

And Uncle Treville *yanks* him down while thrusting *up* — 

His knot gets even *deeper* — 

Olivier's mind goes — 

Everything *burns*, everything is hot, so *hot*, and Olivier is screaming for it, tingling and writhing and screaming and *spurting*, spurting for his Papa, his Uncle, so — 

"Good *boy*," Papa says, and kisses him again, *again* — 

Kisses his *screams* — 

Sucks them into his hungry *mouth* — 

Uncle Treville bites the back of his neck — 

Holds it *hard* — 

Olivier spurts *more* — 

All over Papa's *hands* — 

(That's good, son. That's... mm. That's just what your Papa wants,) Uncle Treville says, and keeps holding Olivier's neck — 

(Yes. *Yes*.) 

Olivier pumps into Papa's fist once more — 

Again — 

Papa squeezes *harder* — 

Olivier whimpers high and *shakes* — and slumps — 

And *jerks*, because it feels like he's *impaling* himself — 

(Easy, easy...) 

(Shh...) 

(Just relax, now, son. Breathe and lean back...) 

(Just so...) 

But — 

Papa breaks the kiss into a lot of smaller ones — 

(You can take it, son. You're tied, but your Uncle won't thrust anymore.) 

Olivier opens his mouth to give his obedience — another whimper comes out. He blushes again. He — 

He has to do better than that. 

He *will* do better than that. 

He breathes and forces himself to relax — 

(Here,) Uncle Treville says, and *growls* around his mouthful — 

Olivier can feel it in his *spine* — 

Olivier can feel it in his *balls* — 

Everything *in* him wants to *open* — 

(Good boy...) 

— and he can... lean back. And relax. 

And take Uncle Treville's knot just that much deeper. 

"Good, good boy," Papa says, and smiles at him from — right there. It feels incalculably strange to be this close to eye-to-eye with his Papa, as if there's something fundamentally unbalanced with the earth — 

Uncle Treville laughs hard in their minds — 

And Papa hums. "Perhaps this will help," he says, and brings his sticky hands to Olivier's mouth. "Clean them." 

And Olivier feels himself *flush* — 

Feels himself *small* — 

Feels himself — correct. 

He leans forward as much as Uncle Treville allows, then stretches his tongue out, then laps at the spend on Papa's fingers. 

This will not be the most efficient washing, but it will be... right.


	10. There are any number of benefits to knotting women.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the dining room is further desecrated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's taken me so long -- my health has been ridiculously poor. I can't promise to be any quicker after this, either. 
> 
> Thank you -- all of you -- for your patience.

"Maman, do you prefer being knotted above all other things?" 

This, as far as Aramis is concerned, is yet another excellent question. Thomas is quite good at asking them, and should be encouraged in this activity in every way. 

Marie-Angelique — no. Maman. *Maman*; she has claimed them, she desires them, and every *part* of Aramis knows this thing, feels this thing, smells and *tastes* this thing — 

Maman sighs and settles herself more comfortably on Porthos's knot. She has loosened her torn and ruined dress, and also her corset, and Porthos has been toying with her breasts most happily. 

*They* should be encouraged in *these* things. 

"Truly, darling, I — mm. I — oh. Oh, *Aramis*..." 

"Hmmm?" Aramis pauses in helping Thomas lick her juices away from her puffy, swollen sex — Thomas doesn't stop, at all, which is *excellent* of him; he learns well — 

And, truly, the encouragement they have received in this has been most warming — 

"Hmmrrr?" 

Maman shivers and groans. "I — I — wouldn't say *favourite* — oh — *Thomas*." 

"Yes, Maman?" 

"If you stop again, I'll *beat* you." 

Aramis grins. "Does that go for me, as well?" 

"No, sweetling, you'd enjoy it too much." 

Aramis laughs breathily — he makes sure to do it against her pleasure-button — 

Maman gasps and curls her toes — 

He knows, because he is holding her plump little foot — 

He squeezes —

She purrs — 

And Thomas leans in to suck sweet little kisses all around her stretched-wide cunt.

Maman *kicks* her other foot — 

And Porthos rumbles — "What was that, eh? I still need lessons up here!" 

"I — I —" And Maman moans and reaches down, *grips* Thomas by the hair — 

Thomas *moans* — 

She *crushes* him to her sex — 

"You should not *do* this, Maman," Aramis says in his most solicitous — others say obnoxious, but what do they know? — voice. 

"What — what?" 

"You leave me no room to *work*," he says, and laps at her outer lips, nips — 

She makes a hurt noise — 

Releases Thomas — 

He *gasps* — 

Sucks Porthos's *balls* — 

"Ah, *fuck*!" 

And Aramis growls low and laps and laps and *laps* at Maman's sex, paying special attention to where she's tied to his Porthos — 

"Suck — oh, *suck*!" 

Aramis rumbles — 

Aramis considers — 

And then he sucks her little pleasure-button, works it between his *lips* — 

She *shrieks* — 

She *bounces* on Porthos's knot — 

"Mm, I — let *me* —" 

And Aramis leans back enough to let Thomas come in from the left side — 

He can *just* nuzzle in to suck at her inner lips — 

So stretched — 

So *puffy* — 

"Ah — *ahn* —" 

"Oh — *fuck*, Maman, I'm going — going to have to fuck you again if you don't —" 

"Please! *Please*!" 

"*Shit*," Porthos says, "just let me, just let me —" 

And then his big hand is down with them, cupping her soft, fat hip — 

He lifts her the short distance his knot will allow — 

He hauls her *down* — 

"Oh, *yes*!" 

Thomas is watching — 

Very obviously counting *off* — 

Aramis *grins* at him — "One.. two..." 

And Thomas giggles and *lunges* with him — 

Licks and nuzzles and growls like a *kitten* — 

Maman's thighs tremble and shake — 

She reaches for both of them, runs her fingers through their hair, claws Aramis's *scalp* — 

Aramis growls and rumbles and licks, *licks* — 

No, he sucks, nuzzles in, sucks right *there*, where she had touched *herself* while Porthos was only watching — 

She gurgles, stiffens — 

Thomas takes the opportunity to suck more at her lips, to lap at her cunt, at Porthos's *knot* — 

"Fuck — *fuck* —" 

Maman kicks like a *child* — 

Aramis spreads her wider, *holds* her thigh splayed — 

No, no, better to reach past Thomas, to hold *both* her thighs splayed — he has so much *power* now! 

So much *strength*!

(Be — be *careful*, love —) 

Always! 

And he will be, he *will*, but it's so good to hear Maman moan and pant, whimper as she *struggles*. 

With him and Porthos holding her, she can do *nothing*, *change* nothing about the way she is being fucked, kissed, licked, sucked, *suckled* — 

So good, so tangy, so *sweet* — 

So *theirs*, and Aramis has never *had* anything like this!

Aramis has had women, had *girls*, but they had not been his. He has not had a sweetheart, or a female lover — 

He has not had family, not like this, and he'd never thought he would, never thought anything like it could be possible — 

(You're *mine*!) 

And Maman is so fierce inside him, so hungry — 

Maman is *searching* inside him, and this is something to fear — what if she finds something she doesn't wish to see? 

What if she finds something she — 

(You're *perfect*,) Porthos says, and holds him, holds him still and open the way they're holding Maman — 

(Good boys, my good boys —) 

(Oh, please let me, *let* me,) Thomas says, and he's still licking, still sucking and *nibbling*, but his mental eyes are wide, his *soul* is wide — 

He wants — 

(I want everything!) 

(My boys — oh, my sweet boys —) And Maman is trying to gather them closer, trying to bring them all together — 

She's so warm — 

She's so — 

Maman — 

And Porthos is groaning even as he helps Maman, even as he *teaches* her the *trick* to gathering souls in close — 

Maman *yanks* them in greedily — 

(Show me my *boys*!) 

Aramis *sobs* against her pleasure-button — 

Aramis gives her everything — 

Aramis *shows* — 

(Oh oh how you've *suffered*...) 

Maman — I — 

(I won't let you hurt!) 

She clutches him tight — 

And Thomas is right there, one hand on Maman's big thigh and the other wound with Maman's in Aramis's hair — 

They are shoulder-to-shoulder — 

Their souls are wound even *tighter* — 

(We'll be brothers forever!) 

Oh — but — 

(I know it's selfish, but — but I've wanted a brother who could *understand* me, *too*!) 

And Aramis groans, shudders, turns and nips and licks Thomas, his brother, new brother, new *brother*, and will Olivier be very angry? 

He will *show* Olivier that he can be *worthwhile* — 

(No one who could *see* you would *doubt* — oh, my beautiful new son!) And Maman squeezes him tighter, squeezes them both — 

Pushes away her own pleasures so that she can hold them all, stroke them all, cuddle them close to her — 

But.

This is her pleasure. 

This is *one* of her pleasures — and a great one. She has *desired* more children, more beautiful boys to fill her home with laughter and chaos — 

She has *tried* — and she's been afraid to ask *their* Daddy how she might be more effective in her efforts, afraid to be ungrateful, afraid to work against — or even to *seem* to work against — his brotherhood with Uncle Laurent, who could never be as *present* a Father —

(Oh, but he loves you all so much! You — Porthos, oh, Porthos, he smiles every time your name is *mentioned*!) 

(Maman, I love him, too!) 

(And Aramis, you must never think — I understand better now, he *would've* given me a child at any *time* —) 

(He didn't understand your need, Maman?) 

She moans and caresses him, pulls him closer — 

He licks her and licks her — 

The dog in him *needs* — 

She moans *more* — (I just want all of you all *over* me —) 

Thomas groans and suckles and *suckles* where she and Porthos are joined — 

Aramis uses the *flat* of his tongue on her pleasure-button — 

(I — oh — I promise to *talk* —) 

"Later — later, yeah," Porthos says, and makes her ride him slowly, *roughly*, *rhythmically* — 

She makes a *broken* sound — 

Her toes point — 

Her hands *shake* — 

"Just take it, Maman, just take everything, 'cause we need to give it to you," Porthos says, and he's growling, too, thrusting up — 

Up — 

Up *hard* — 

She *yells* — 

"Nnh — your breasts are so *soft*, Maman —" 

"They — they'll be firmer — with milk —"

Porthos bucks, throwing them all off-rhythm for a moment — 

Maman laughs and *croons* — 

Aramis croons against her pleasure-button — 

She *wails* — 

Porthos growls — "Olivier talked about — about *having* your milk —" 

"Oh, God!" 

"Olivier — wants to suckle —" 

"Oh, God, God, *God*!" And Maman *claws* Aramis's scalp — 

Tries and fails to close her legs around them — 

Aramis holds her *wide* — 

She *howls* — 

"I love that *sound*, Maman!" 

She gasps — 

She chokes on a gasp — 

She *giggles* — "You're — your father's *son*!" 

"That's *right* — oh, Maman, fuck, I want to crawl up your cunt and *stay* there!" 

She laughs *breathlessly* hard and loud, moans, laughs more — "You have to leave room for your *brother*." 

"*Fuck* —" 

Aramis licks slow and *hard* — 

Maman shudders and *whines* — 

Porthos fucks her hard, *hard* — 

Thomas licks up to join him, kiss him, *share* her pleasure-button with him, but — 

(Do you know it will be a boy, Maman?") 

"N-no — please — oh, please, are you — kissing me — kiss him, kiss my baby boy!" 

Aramis *takes* Thomas's mouth in a *hard* kiss — 

"MM!" 

(You taste like our Maman!) 

Thomas groans and bucks and pets him, his hair and face, his sticky cheeks — 

And then Thomas reaches down to toy with his own hard little cock — 

"No!" 

(Maman?) 

"No — no, darling, you must — save that for *me* — *ahn* — *AHN* — oh, Porthos!" 

"That's so bloody *hot*," Porthos says, and fucks her harder, *still* —

*Holds* her still and — oh, reams her again, *has* her, and Aramis leaves Thomas her pleasure-button, because he must nuzzle at those balls, suck — 

Take them into his *mouth* while he holds Maman spread — 

While he stares at beauty, such beauty — 

While he *sucks* — 

Porthos *snarls* — 

Maman *grips* his and Thomas's hair — 

Pulls *hard* — 

She's sobbing — 

She's — 

Oh, she's clenching so *much* — 

"Fuck — oh, *fuck* — oh, *fuck* fuck *fuck* —" 

Aramis sucks at her *lips* — 

Porthos slams *in* and *in* — 

She sobs again and *screams* — 

Thomas shudders and pulls back, *pressing* on that one spot next to her pleasure-button — 

She *shrieks* again, shuddering all *over* — 

She *spurts*, splashing Thomas's *face* — 

Thomas cries *out* — 

And Aramis holds him *still* — just in case — and licks him thoroughly. 

Once Maman has slumped and started to moan — 

Once Porthos is simply *working* her pliant body on his *cock* — 

Oh, so *pretty* — 

They go back to licking. 

They go back to *thoroughly* licking, wide-eyed Thomas focusing most assiduously on Maman's little piss-hole. 

Hm. 

That bears thought. 

(It's only that I didn't think — no one ever said anything about — I didn't know!) 

Spurting in females is supposed to be very rare. Certainly, I had *only* heard about it. 

"Wait — bloody — she — Maman, you *spurt*?" And Porthos sounds almost *distressed* in his arousal — 

He is shuddering so hard that he is shaking *her* — 

And Maman laughs tiredly — "*Sometimes*. Only — oh. Mm. Well. *Every* time I'm knotted, really —" 

"Oh my bloody — sodding — *fucking* —" And Porthos fucks her hard, hard, so — 

"Oh, *son* —" 

"Oh, *God* —" 

There is no *way* to keep *licking* — 

And then Porthos *pushes* at him from inside — the message is clear. Aramis moves Thomas out of the *way* — 

"What —" 

And Porthos *roars* and lifts Maman *up*, throwing her back over the table and fucking her so *brutally* — 

"*Yes*! Oh! Oh, *son*, my son, my *beautiful* — fill your Maman, fill me *up*!" 

"*Fuck* —" 

"Do you want to — to give me a baby, too?" 

"Oh — *FUCK* —" 

Maman laughs hard, croons — "Do you want to — make me *yours* —" 

"You *are* mine!" And Porthos *grips* her by the hair — 

Yanks her back into a *bow* — 

"Oh, *God*, son, yes! *YES*!" 

Her breasts are *crushed* against the table, so soft, so — 

And Porthos is slamming in, growling, snarling, *rutting*, *howling* — 

So loud — 

So *hungry* — 

Maman looks so *blissful* — 

The dog in Aramis wants to *mount* — 

(Me — me *too* —) 

Oh, Porthos!

(I'm — the kennels — are bloody *chained* —) And Porthos howls *again* — 

*Again* — 

(Here, baby...) And then Maman slips her tongue out in concentration — 

Porthos *yips* — 

Goes *rigid* — 

(Maman so tight so tight I want so *TIGHT* —) 

(MINE!) 

And Porthos ruts fast and hard, animal-rough —

(So RIGHT!) 

(Yes, Maman, YES — NNH —) 

And Maman shares the feel of Porthos filling her, the wet heat, the *spatter* of his spend, so much, so hot — 

Aramis wants to lick —

Aramis wants to *suck* — 

(So do I...) And Maman laughs dirtily, breathlessly, crushed down to the table and so — 

"Perfect," Thomas says. He sounds awestruck. 

Aramis understands this with all of himself. 

Porthos is still *spending* — 

Still *rutting* — 

And Maman is taking it *all*. 

Maman is — 

"Women are strong, boys," she says — purrs, truly, and appears to concentrate again — 

Porthos groans and collapses on the hand he doesn't have in her hair — 

It starts *shaking* — 

He takes his other hand out of her hair and *braces* himself. This is wise, Aramis thinks. This is...

But perhaps she is leaking *now*? He starts to crawl over to see — 

"Ah, fuck, my knot's so bloody *big*," Porthos says, mournful and hungry at once — 

"Mmm," Maman says. "Yes, it *is*." 

"I — I — Maman —" 

"Don't worry, son. It's not like knotting an arse." 

"No?" 

Aramis and Thomas both look up from where they're trying to get *access* — 

Thomas pecks her hip — 

And Maman laughs softly. "There's much more *give*, boys. Remember — I pushed two babies out of there."

Aramis *blinks* — "You will be able to *force* Porthos out?" 

"Not quite that — not if he doesn't want to *go* — but, once he shrinks down a *little*, and once my *own* swelling goes down, I can indeed push while he pulls." 

"And this won't, you know, *hurt* you, Maman?" 

"No, Porthos. All will be well. It's not my *favourite* feeling — and I do usually wait for your father's knot to shrink *all* the way back down because of it — but *we* need to get to a *bed*!" 

"Yes, Maman!" 

"Anything you say —" 

"As you wish, Maman," Aramis says, and licks her hip — 

Continues looking for a way to get to do her sex — 

Perhaps if he noses in from behind Porthos — 

*Porthos* laughs breathlessly. "Give me a *minute*, love. I'll sit us back down. Or — wait. Maman, is that okay with you? Will that... help with the swelling?"

"Honestly, as near as I've been able to tell over the years, the *only* position that really *helps* with that is having me and the man knotting me on our sides, and that simply will not work in *here*. Sit us down, son." 

"Yes, Maman." 

Maman hums — 

Aramis and Thomas hold the chair steady — 

And Porthos holds Maman *tight* and *secure* as he sits them back down and sprawls her over his lap. 

"Oh — mmm. That's so good, son. Your knot is *wonderful*." 

Porthos moans and licks and licks and *licks* Maman's throat — 

Maman giggles — 

Aramis drops to his knees — 

"Oh — oh, no, darling Thomas, hop right up on the table there where Maman can *reach* you." 

"Oh, Maman —" 

"Oh, *fuck*, Maman, are you going to suck him?" And Porthos sounds as though he's worried his knot will *never* shrink — 

"I bloody *am*!" 

Maman's laugh is high and sweet. "Am I leaking yet, sweet Aramis?" 

"Oh, I — a little!" 

"*Really*? But my knot feels *enormous*!" 

"It is, my beautiful Porthos! But you have stretched Maman *wide*." 

"More give, boys," Maman says, and wriggles just a little — 

*Squeezes* Porthos's thighs with her own — 

"Oh — oh, *yeah* —" 

"There," Maman says, "that's much more comfortable. Keep us nice and neat — oh — oh, *Aramis* —" 

Aramis expresses his agreement with this plan using his lips — 

His teeth and tongue — 

Porthos *groans* — 

Maman *pants* — and hums. "Now. Now, Thomas — mmm. I didn't forget *your* question." 

"Yes, Maman?" 

"Knotting is — somehow — *not* my favourite sexual act," she says, and the shadows shift and move — 

She is leaning over — 

"Oh, Maman — *Maman*!" 

"Do you like that, darling? My hand on your beautiful little cock?" 

"Y-yes, Maman!" 

"Perhaps I *will* bathe you tonight..." 

Aramis pauses — "I would like to put in a vote for tomorrow morning!" 

Porthos *coughs* — 

"Do not laugh at your lover!" 

"I'm laughing at *both* of us," Aramis," Porthos says, laughing hard "I was sitting up here trying to figure out how to subtly shove everybody's smallclothes under our bolsters!" 

Aramis flips up Maman's skirt and peeks up from between. "You love me!" 

"We *all* love you, which is why we're going to let you sleep with Thomas's breeches in your mouth, sweetling," Maman says — 

Porthos grunts and *bucks* — "Fuck — sorry —" 

Maman *giggles* — "Let me *concentrate*!" 

"No?" Aramis licks her thighs, once and once. "No." 

Maman giggles more and reaches down to swat him. 

Aramis grins — 

"Then *you* come up here, *too*." 

"What — what?" 

"You heard me! Up!" 

Aramis moans and *moves*, resisting the urge to shift, to put his unwieldy paws up and jump — 

No, no, she wants the boy — 

(That's right, sweetling, give me *this* doggy cock...) 

Aramis moans and sits *next* to Thomas — 

Licks and licks his face — and *grunts* when Maman *squeezes* his cock — 

So *hard* — 

"Maman —" 

"Oh, Maman, you're holding him so much harder!" 

"Our Aramis *likes* pain, Thomas. You saw." 

"Yes — yes, but I'd like to try —" 

"Would you...?" 

"Yes, Maman!" 

"Do you want to get ready for your brother?" 

"And Papa!" 

And Marie-Angelique's eyes heat. "You should be thinking far, far more about me..." 

Thomas looks *panicked* — "Oh — I apologize! I am thinking about — I mean — I — *AHN*! Oh, Maman! Maman, that *hurts*!" 

"Should I stop?" 

"Please please please I don't know!" 

Aramis looks — Maman is squeezing Thomas *just* as hard as she is squeezing *him* — 

"I am squeezing you *both* just as hard as I squeeze Laurent." 

Thomas bucks and *shouts* — 

Porthos moans. "He likes it rough?" 

"He likes — he likes to *hurt*?" And Aramis pants and pants — 

"Your Papa and Uncle lives and breathes *intensity* for his sex. He is... mm. One moment," Maman says, leaning in to alternate licks to the heads of Thomas's and Aramis's cocks — 

Oh — 

*Oh* — 

"Maman! Please!" 

"Take it, darling." 

"Yes — oh, *yes*!"

Aramis rumbles and rumbles and *urges* — 

He wants — 

And then Maman switches her grip from the shaft of his cock to his *knot* — 

Aramis *croons* — 

Maman *sucks* the head — 

Aramis *barks* — 

"Oh — oh, yeah, do it, Maman, give it to them —" 

"Mm-hmm..." 

And Aramis barks and barks — and *whines* when she pulls *back* — and immediately takes Thomas in — 

He *screams*, kicking his feet and curling his *toes* — 

She sucks *hard* — 

"*Maman*!" 

She bobs her head once — 

"AHN!" 

Twice — 

"Oh, *please*!" 

And then she pulls back — 

Thomas slumps — 

Maman licks her lips — "Where was I...?" 

Aramis points helpfully at his cock. 

Maman giggles and gives it a peck — 

"Oh, Maman —" 

"Shh," she says, and pats it gently, gently — 

Aramis moans — 

"You're *adorable*, love." 

"So is my woefully-unsucked cock! Look, there is a freckle —" 

"I noticed the freckle," Maman says, with a laugh in her voice. 

"You do not like my freckle? It is a very nice freckle! Porthos has said this thing, Maman, and he never lies to his Aramis." 

Thomas giggles. "*I* want to suck his cock now!" 

"I will graciously allow this thing." 

Maman splutters — 

Aramis lolls his tongue helplessly — 

He does not mean to, but — 

"Mm, oh, yes, that reminds me," Maman says, and *points* to Aramis's tongue. "*That* is my favourite sexual act." 

"*Oh*! When Uncle Treville uses his shifted tongue in your cunt?" 

"Oh, no, darling. In my *arse*. There is absolutely *nothing* like it, and it's always *so* good, so *melting*, that it makes me *need* to get *fucked* in my arse — which, under normal circumstances, is an act I can take or leave." 

"*Really*, Maman? But it's so good!" And Porthos sounds and looks honestly *stunned* — 

Aramis pulls his tongue back *in*. "I have heard many women feel this way, beautiful Porthos! I have always wondered if it's because their pleasure-buttons are in a different place." 

"I *guess*. It's just that it's more than the pleasure-button that makes it, you know, *good*." 

Maman hums. "Perhaps if you boys had *cunts*, you'd feel the way *I* do." 

Aramis's jaw drops — 

"Well, that's a point..." 

Thomas looks honestly *thoughtful* — 

And Maman laughs like Daddy, low and filthy. "Are you thinking about it, darling? Are you thinking about having a nice, loose, sloppy cunt like your Maman?" 

Porthos makes a *desperate* noise — 

Aramis's cock twitches *hard* — but. "You know, Maman, it takes time and *effort* to make a cunt as welcoming as yours." 

"No, it doesn't," she says, and laughs *raucously*. "It just takes *talent*." 

Porthos splutters — 

Aramis *coughs* — 

Colours — 

"I stand — sit — corrected, Maman —" 

"What do *you* like best, mm? What does my sweetling *crave*... other than his Maman's mouth?" 

Aramis moans. "There are... so many things..." 

"And yet all of the images in your mind are of you being touched roughly, manhandled, hurt, made to *scream*..." 

"Yes, *please* —" 

"I think you, too, live for intensity, Aramis." 

"I —" 

"I think we'll be closeting you with your Uncle tomorrow." 

"Oh — *shit*," Porthos says, petting and squeezing Maman almost restlessly — 

Aramis *moans* — "I will go happily! Will I take Thomas?" 

Maman hums. "I haven't decided," she says, and leans in to lick two long stripes up the underside of his cock — 

"Maman — please —" 

"I'm so greedy for my *darling* —" 

"You know Olivier needs you, too," Porthos says — 

And Maman laughs more as she leans in to mouth and nibble and lick at the head of Aramis's cock — 

"Ah — *ahn* —" 

"If I could keep the four of you right here... mm... mmmm... with me..." 

Aramis *groans* — "Maman, I love your *greed*!" 

Maman laughs more and *slurps* — 

"Yes — oh, *yes*," Thomas says, and tries and fails to fuck her *tight* fist — 

"You love it when Maman is... mmm... hungry?" 

"Fuck — fuck, *yeah* — oh, please, Maman, use your teeth on Aramis a little," Porthos says — 

She takes him in right down to his *knot* — 

Sucks *hard* — 

Aramis *shouts* — 

And then she bares her teeth and scrapes slowly — 

Slowly — 

Aramis croons and growls and growls and feels himself start to *shift* — 

(No, you don't, love,) Porthos says, and *yanks* Aramis's dog back into the kennel — 

Aramis yips and howls and squirms and *sweats* — 

Porthos and Maman are holding him so *tightly* — 

"Does that — does that hurt very much more than the squeezing, Aramis?" And Thomas sounds breathless, hungry, *curious* — 

Aramis *moans* — "It hurts so much! It *burns*, it aches — oh, it is torture! It makes me want to be *slapped*, just to ease it!" 

Maman makes a high-pitched noise of pleasure — 

Sucks *hard* again — 

Pulls *back* — and slaps his cock — 

"Ai! Maman! Maman, *please*!" 

"Again, sweetling!" 

"Please!"

Maman slaps him *hard* — 

Aramis throws his head back and *sobs* — 

He's clutching at the edge of the table — 

"Again, sweetling?" 

"Please please ple— AHN — Maman! You feel so *good*!" 

"Sometimes, darling, I do this to your father until he spends himself roaring like a *dragon*." 

"Oh my *God*," Porthos says — 

Thomas whimpers — 

Aramis *moans* — "Does he — does he — do you make love further... after?" 

Maman grins and bends to give Aramis's twitching cock another peck. "He insists upon it. Those are the times when I *prefer* giving him my arse, since I'm tighter back there, and there's much more friction for his sensitized cock — Porthos, are you *softening*?" 

"No! I. Maybe." 

Aramis and Maman splutter together — 

Thomas is moaning and rocking and cupping Maman's fist — 

And taking his hands away — 

And cupping her fist *again* — 

"Oh, darling, *yes*," she says, and takes all of him *in*, moving her fist — 

"Maman!" 

(Here...) 

And she scrapes her teeth along *his* cock — 

Thomas howls and buries his hands in Maman's lank curls — 

Howls and *pumps* into her *mouth* — 

"Oh, good *boy*," Porthos says — 

"*Best* boy," Aramis says, and licks his lips — 

And then Maman sucks and slurps and bobs her head fast — 

So fast — 

"Nuh — Maman! *Maman*!" 

"Is it good, little brother? Your sweat smells *delicious*..." 

"I'm so hot — so *sensitive* —" And Thomas sniffles and bucks — 

Sobs and *wails* — 

"*Maman*!" 

Maman *hums* — 

Thomas screams — 

Falls back on his elbows on the table — 

Aramis reaches over and plays with Thomas's small nipples — 

*Especially* the one surrounded with *fascinating* bruises — 

"Olivier — Olivier bit — and *sucked*!" 

Maman makes a hungry noise — (Do it, Aramis!) 

"*Yes*, Maman," Aramis says, leaning in and sucking, *biting* — 

Thomas *wails* — 

Aramis's cock jerks — 

Porthos *growls* — "I — I want —" And then he growls more and gives Aramis that push, that little — 

He *shows* Aramis what he wants, makes him feel, makes him *need*, and Aramis is suckling Thomas's nipples hard, *hard*, making them swell, kneading and massaging the pectoral muscle on whichever side he isn't sucking to make *it* swell — 

To puff up sweetly — 

Thomas is wailing like a child, like a *child* — 

(I'm sucking him much more gently now,) Maman says. 

"You're bloody torturing him — you're both — God, fuck —" And Porthos groans and pants — 

And Aramis keeps *working* Thomas's little teats — 

(My — *my* —) 

Your *teats*, Thomas... 

(To match the sloppy-wet cunt we'll make out of your arse,) Maman says and slurps *again* — 

Thomas cries out — 

Maman slurps *again* — 

Bobs her *head* — 

Aramis nibbles and nibbles and moves to the other teat — 

Squeezes both and sucks hard, sucks *hard* — 

Pulls back and *spanks* them — 

Thomas screams *high* — 

(Oh, mm, *mmm*, his little cock is spasming in my mouth, oh, my good, good *boy*!) 

Aramis spanks his teats again — 

Thomas wails and *writhes* — 

Aramis waits until Thomas is flat on his back and then spanks his teats hard and fast, five times — 

"*Mm*!" 

"Are you sucking him down, Maman?" And Porthos is growling and *clawing* at her sides — 

"Mm-hm, mm-hmm..." 

"Are you... taking all his spend, oh fuck, I want to *taste*, Maman, let me —" And then Porthos *grunts* — 

Aramis's mouth waters — 

She's sharing Thomas's flavours with all of them — 

His sweetness and slick *heat* — 

His mild *salt* — 

Good boy, delicious *boy* — 

Aramis can't stop himself from licking him all over — 

His throat his face his chest his belly his *fist* — 

Maman's face as she pulls back — 

Thomas *slumps* — 

Maman hums — 

Moans — 

"Oh, how *beautiful*," she says, and *cups* his swollen teats... 

"He's your son, Maman," Porthos says — 

And Maman's expression turns wild, hungry, *covetous* — 

They can all *feel* her — 

The loneliness of *years* —

"You're all my sons," she says at last, quiet and firm as she cups Aramis's thighs. 

"Oh —" 

"You're all my *sons*. And with Thomas and me in the de Tréville manor... well. We won't be so far anymore, now will we?" 

Porthos moans. "You'll — come to us?" 

"Yes, son." 

Aramis arches up. "You will bring our Thomas —" 

"He will not leave my side anymore. Not for long," Maman says, and lowers her head to nuzzle at Aramis's curls — 

"Oh, Maman, *yes*," Thomas says, shaky and fervent, *breathless* as he sits up — 

"We will all. Be. Together," Maman says, and *sucks* the head of Aramis's cock *hard* — 

Aramis *whimpers* —

"*Always*, Maman!" 

"Yeah, yeah, I want — and when we come back to the manor —" 

"We'll *be* there," Thomas says — 

"Bloody *making* it home!" 

Aramis whines and nods, scrabbles at the table, arches and struggles — 

He needs — 

"You need *this*, love, you need — oh, fuck, I didn't know how much I needed this —" 

"P-Porthos —" 

"But I knew how much *you* did," Porthos says. "If I could hold Maman's head down on your cock, I would —" 

Aramis cries out — 

"If I could make us all — stay together — stay together *forever* —" 

Aramis whines and *claws* at the table, nods, reaches — 

Thomas pushes close, grips him, kisses him, kisses him, looks into his eyes and pants and — "You'll come *home* to me!" 

Aramis chokes on a cry — 

"It's what — what I was afraid of," Thomas says, and kisses him all over his face — 

Maman swallows him *down* — 

Swallows and swallows and *groans* in her *chest* — (No fear!) 

"I thought — I thought you'd all leave and only come back for — for holidays and *duty*!" 

Aramis clutches Thomas *hard* — 

He knows he is *bruising* — 

"Don't stop! Don't stop and promise you'll always come *home*!" 

"I — I —" He'd spent so long with no home, at all, and now — 

Maman looks up at him — 

Maman *gazes* up at him, and her eyes are bright and full of so much *love* — 

And Thomas's eyes are no different. 

"I will always come *home*! I promise, I swear, please, *please* — please keep me!" 

And Porthos shudders — "Good — good *boy*!" 

Aramis yips and yips and aches, aches in his *knot* — 

Maman *squeezes* it immediately — 

Warms it and *milks* it — 

Aramis moans and howls and — he can't — 

He fucks *into* her mouth — 

Into her throat — 

(Good boy...) 

"Maman! Please keep me!" 

(I'll never let you go.) 

Aramis whimpers and bucks and thrusts and — thrusts *wildly* — 

He has no finesse — 

He has no *control* — 

(Good boy, good *boy*...) 

Maman, Maman, I'm sorry — 

(Shh, let go...) 

Aramis sobs — 

Thrusts *deep* — 

Grinds and grinds and sobs again — 

And then Maman slips one finger between his cheeks — 

Pushes *in*, dry and hot — 

So *hot* — 

Aramis *howls* — 

Clenches and *howls* — 

(Spend for me, sweet boy...) 

Maman —

(Do it!) And she *crooks* her finger — 

Sucks *hard* — 

(I promise you'll always be home with me...) 

And Aramis can't see, can't — 

Can't hold *on* — 

He falls — 

He gives up and *falls*, for his Maman, for his love, for his little brother gripping him so tight — 

He shudders and shouts — 

Spills — 

Spills all he *has* — 

Maman is groaning in her chest — 

Louder when she pulls back to *taste* him — 

She suckles and moans and hums and — (Good boy, sweet *boy*...) 

Maman, I am yours! 

(And I'm yours. All of yours...) 

And it's true, it's — 

The scents are so *warm* — 

He breathes deep and slumps and licks — 

Licks Thomas — 

Licks Maman when she gives him her little fingers — 

Aramis wants to curl up and stay, just stay, just *stay* — 

He wants to rest his muzzle on her belly and hold her still, make her sleep, make her rest — 

Maman laughs throatily — 

Aramis pricks up his ears — 

He can see Porthos doing the same — 

"We can try that," she says. "I'm just about ready to try detaching..." 

"Oh... fuck," Porthos says. 

Maman laughs more — 

"I know I'm not *supposed* to clutch harder for that, but... um..." 

"I hadn't thought, enough, about how lucky I was to have a mother," Thomas says thoughtfully. "More than just loving you, I mean, Maman." 

Aramis leans over and *nips* Thomas's ear — 

"Oh —" 

"Be careful with this, little brother. Such wealth can be more fleeting than any sort of coin." 

"Aye," Porthos says.

"Shh, shh, don't be so grim, boys. It's bad for the *baby*," Maman says, curling her fingers around the edge of the table and grunting — 

And starting to stand — 

And grunting more — 

"Oh, fuck — Maman, should I push?" 

"No, lovely boy, just stay... right... oh. Oh, right there — *oh* —" 

"Maman, is all well?" And Aramis lifts his nose — 

Smells arousal and spend and discomfort all at once — 

Thomas reaches out to brush her hair out of her face — 

"Yes — oh — do that. Do that, darling," Maman pants, and blows, and lifts up a little more — 

Porthos groans — 

Aramis helps Thomas brush Maman's hair *back* — 

"Ah — almost —" 

She lifts more — 

Porthos *grunts* — 

And the scents of spend suddenly intensify — 

"That's because it's running down my *thighs*, sweetling," Maman says, sighing and standing straight for a moment before digging her fists into the small of her back — 

"Oh — oh, I'll massage you, Maman —" 

"In a moment, lovely — mm. Porthos. Hold me a little longer and let my other sons clean your spend from my thighs." 

"Yes, Maman!" And Porthos pulls her gently back down onto his lap — 

Maman lifts her dress once more — 

And Thomas and Aramis slip down and lap and lap and slurp and suck — 

"*Mm* — gently only, boys," Maman says. "Little kitten licks." 

"Yes, Maman!" 

"Will puppy licks be sufficient?" 

"How could I say no to you?" And Maman scratches behind Aramis's ear — 

It feels *perfect* — 

Aramis almost forgets to *lick* — 

Almost.

"It seems very strange that I'm tasting Porthos's spend before Olivier is," Thomas says, and licks gently around Maman's cunt — 

Porthos *grunts* — 

"Yes, this is so," Aramis says, and gets the last drips from around Maman's knees. "But it is correct, I think." 

Maman sighs luxuriantly. "Olivier will taste Porthos tomorrow." 

"Yes, Maman?" And, by the sound of it, Porthos is licking her ears. 

"Olivier will need Porthos to help him with Thomas. Won't he, darling." 

"Oh — I do *like* him out-of-control, Maman." 

Maman laughs — 

Aramis gently licks away the spend that had leaked back into her cleft — 

"Oh — *ooh* — yes — mm. I — mm. Darling, your *arse* will appreciate him having a *bit* more control, at first." 

"But — you and Papa —" 

"Were *adults*, darling. And this adult, for one, had had *years* to *wait* for your Papa to come to call. Years to *play* with herself..." 

Porthos rumbles — 

Aramis hums. "That is a very pleasing thought, Maman!" 

Maman laughs more. "Such good boys. Come on. I'm clean enough not to drip on the *rugs*... much..." 

Porthos coughs — "Sorry?" 

Maman swats him. "Don't you *dare* apologize, lovely boy. Let's go to my rooms, for now. Laurent bought me a magnificently large bed in the hopes I'd want to invite more people into it —" 

"Oh — *who*, Maman?" 

"Kitos and Reynard, of course —" 

"Oh fuck —"

Maman laughs hard and shoos him and Thomas back — 

They stand and do a remarkably bad job of dressing themselves respectably — 

Aramis is reasonably certain that he looks like he was ravished by the dog he *is* —

Porthos's laces are woefully uneven — 

Thomas is missing a *slipper* — 

*Maman* looks exactly like Porthos had fucked her twice while two other boys had done their level best to be helpful. But... she makes it look *regal*, somehow. 

She hums. "I take pride in my fucking, gentlemen." 

"Ah, of course —" 

"And Porthos, lovely, are your Uncles still *denying* you *every* kind of lovemaking?" And she reaches up to cup Porthos's face, rubbing his fuzzy chin with her thumb. 

"They really are, Maman. They're surprisingly delicate about the whole incest... thing. You know." 

Maman bites her lip. 

"I believe Uncle Reynard is weakening, my Porthos. You did not see him gazing at your mighty cock when we were all bathing together at the garrison last week." 

"Oh — shit — did he look, you know, hungry?" 

"Well... he mostly looked as though he feared as though it would attack him in the night, while you were sleeping —" 

"Aww —" 

"But in a positive way!" 

Maman and Thomas giggle —

And they begin walking to Maman's rooms, Maman pausing to point out portraits and objets d'art to Aramis, and explain their provenance. 

Aramis is very grateful for this, and leans in to lick her upper chest through one of the tears in her dress — 

She pets his hair — 

She kisses Thomas's temple — 

She makes no protest whatsoever when, after she winces, Porthos lifts her into his powerful arms and starts to carry her — 

She continues giving Aramis the tour. 

Thomas begins to help, as he can. 

She gazes at him proudly. 

Once they're in her rooms, they strip down again — Maman shows them the proper ways to help a lady disrobe — 

Porthos is only *somewhat* dismayed by all the laces of the corset — 

"I *don't* undo all of them, as you can see." 

"Yes, Maman, but the *first* time..." 

She snorts and swats Porthos again — 

Porthos grins — 

He and Aramis sniff and nose at her sweaty chemise — 

Thomas joins them in this curiously — 

"Here, darling," she says, and tucks his nose in her armpit. 

"Lucky *boy*," Porthos says, rumbling and licking the sweat from between her breasts — 

"Yes, very," Aramis says, and licks the sweat from the base of her spine — 

"To *bed*," she says, and they — herd her. 

A little — 

She giggles and dispenses swats liberally — 

Thomas beams when he gets his own — 

And, eventually, Maman is near the center of the bed, Aramis is burrowed under the covers with his nose up her chemise, Porthos is curled around her from the back, and Maman is curled around Thomas.

"Are my boys comfortable?" 

Porthos and Aramis rumble — 

Aramis licks gently — 

Thomas yawns quietly — "Mm-hmm." 

"Mm. Perfect." 

At some point, perhaps, Aramis will grow too hot, or too cramped, or will need to feel his Porthos more closely — 

At some point, perhaps, the others will wish to join them, and they will have to rearrange the sleeping arrangements *entirely*. 

For now, however... 

Aramis is more than content.


End file.
